Insomniac
by ShadowedLove97
Summary: There's something wrong with him. Sean knows it. So does Robin, Mark, his fans... Everyone. It's as if, as time passes, he's a parasite in his own body - less like "Sean" and more like "Jack." Were the holes in his memory to blame? Or was it something more? Maybe, behind it's sneering, that strange entity held all of the secrets that were just out of Sean's reach...
1. Prologue

AN: This was a gift fic I posted on Ao3. Well, still _is_ a gift fic, but I don't know if this person is on FFN or not haha. My goal for this fanfic is to update once a month but if I miss a monthly update I'll have make up for it come time for the next update.

Also this is tentatively T for now as nothing has happened that is M rated violence wise. This might change later on, though. I also have violence warnings at the end of relevant chapters if you need them.

Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

 _Something's wrong._

He feels it in his bones.

 _Something's wrong._

He creeps forwards, light dim overhead.

 _Something is wrong._

The bowl of the sink is faintly stained while his hands grip only white porcelain.

 _Something._

His breathing quivers. Red drips into the basin below, splattering against the stains. A mirror hangs before him.

 _Is._

He doesn't look.

 _Wrong._

But he doesn't have to.

That something breathes down his neck, the air warm and moist against his skin. Sean breathes in tandem with it. Against his will.

Slowly, against better judgement, he looks up and sees the red staining his lips and chin as it streams from his nose. He sees his own blue eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. But he only lingers on these things for a few moments. Just a few.

It's the black eyes that he focuses on; they stare at him from behind, cold and unfeeling. As he stares into that gaze, something icy cold grips his chest. His breathing shudders. It's suffocating.

His legs buckle out from under him and he hits the floor.

Just before he passes out a distorted laugh, _his_ laugh, echoes in his head.

Darkness consumes him.


	2. Chapter 1: Disoriented

AN: Sorry for how long this took! I had a really hard time rewriting chapter 1 because it was just so different from the original. I even rewrote the rewrite a couple times and there are several scenes I wrote for this that just got axed because they didn't work. Rip Dr. Iplier. Your cameo will be missed immensely.

Anyways, like always I hope you like it! And again, this fic is unbeta'd so if you catch any spelling or grammar mistakes please tell me so I can fix them!

* * *

Pain is the first thing Sean registers when he jolts awake. It permeates his skull as an ever-present ache, like a migraine. Residual fear clings to the back of his mind – fear that usually only accompanies him after a nightmare. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to recall a thing. "What the hell?"

He pushes up against soft cotton to sit up, flinching as the pain in his head flares, and looks around (slowly, slowly, as to not aggravate his head more). The world is a fuzzy white and all too sterile; foreign but not quite empty. Curtains and beds and _people_ surround him, along with regular (and sometimes irregular) beeping and hum of machines. The strong smell of bleach burns his nostril, only a hint of lemon to mask it. Like LaCroix, if LaCroix made cleaning products instead of sparkling water.

Opening his mouth to speak, Sean finds the words strangled in his throat. It's sudden and violent and he's unsure as to why, when he could speak only just a moment ago. His heart pounds in his chest and the sound of it echoes in his ears. A thumping rhythm that is only drowned out by the machines around him.

His instincts scream at him; _escape escape escape escape escape escape-_ He couldn't get it out of his head. His brain feels fuzzy, filled with a high-pitch ringing and static.

He forces himself to ignore it as he slips out of bed.

Warmth drips down one arm as he walks - he's not sure why, but can't stop to look, can't stop for anything. Everything was so white, he couldn't be sure of where the exit was, where to go, where he had been, where he had come from. He exits one room, only to find an exact copy; more beds, except emptier and emptier and emptier. It's cold and devoid of life and unsettles him to the core.

Where? Where did he go?

Footsteps echo - his own? Or behind him? He speeds up. The footsteps do as well.

Something cold slithers it's away around his wrist. With an undignified scream, Sean whips around. He pushes against whatever had grabbed him.

"Whoa whoa, Sean, Sean, it's okay! It's me."

He stops.

"Robin?"

And then he realizes - he's not standing.

He's not in that endless loop of beds.

The beeping of monitors and the chatter of nurses and the bustling of doctors as they attend patients surrounds him. His hand brushes against the soft cotton of a blanket. That vaguely-lemon-and-bleach scent is still there, but it's not as overpowering, not as sickening.

"What…?"

It's not hard to hear the confusion in his voice, but it doesn't last long. Not at all. It never really did, he had years of experience with it after all; being in one place, and then blinking to find that he was somewhere else entirely. But even still, disorientation clings to him like vertigo as he can't precisely place where he was despite how _obvious_ it had to be. As if the word were stuck just out of his mental reach.

"You okay? You zoned out on me while we were talking so I tried get you out, but then you started freaking out." Robin stands next to his bedside, frowning with his arms crossed over his chest.

There's a moment where he's not sure what to do, torn between telling the truth and keeping his friend from worrying more - Robin knew of his memory problems, most of his friends did, but would describing his experience worry him more regardless? But it's just that, a moment. "Yeah, I'm alright. Don't worry dude, it was just a memory lapse again." Jack smiles and it's bright and carefree and _disarming_ , the sort of smile he would use when meeting fans or in some of his selfies. Open and friendly, but not quite right here. "You wouldn't happen to know where we are, would ya?"

He can see it - the way Robin opens his mouth before closing it, the furrow of his brow as he takes in the words, and all the little tells in between - the question and disbelief hanging over his friend's head. It's there, almost palpable, and for a second Jack doubts his own efforts. But only for a second as Robin finally replies, "ICU. You were in an accident or something?"

" _Accident?_ " A furrowed brow and a disbelieving smile, Jack takes a moment to really think about it, let the dread settle before brushing it away with a shake of his head. "No way. What kind of 'accident'?"

"Well I don't know the specifics, but something like a car accident? Hit and run? They wouldn't really say."

 _An accident. Hit and run._ The words reverberate in his head over and over and over. _Accident. Accident._

"No." Jack shakes his head again. "There's no way—" It's probably desperation that makes him hold onto that denial, or maybe it was fear? Fear of….what? He couldn't place it. There was a part of him that wanted it to be false, an elaborate prank regardless of how cruel it would be. But when he looks up at Robin again there is no hint of deception; no snicker or crinkle of his eyes or a mischievous glint. There was nothing but a worried expression of a friend whose seen his highs and lows and everything in between.

And so, for the first time since he woke up here, he really looks around and takes in what he sees. Finally notices his right arm, bound in bandaging and secured tightly against his chest, or the way IVs tug at his left as he reaches to touch his right. Notices the violet bruises slinked across his skin or the strange tightness around his chest and abdomen similar to that of his bandaged arm. Feels the chilly cold of the oxygen line hooked under his nose and the rough cotton of the hospital gown against his skin.

"Sean?"

Two watery stains blossom on the blanket covering his legs. Two more blossom soon after, dripping dripping dripping, creating warm trails down Sean's cheeks. He sniffles, sucks in a breath, and pulls up one hand to wipe away the tears but only creates more of a mess as they smear everywhere. "Fuck." It's not eloquent. It's not pretty. But not everything was pretty, and not everything could be summed up in a Shakespearean way. Especially emotions too messy to express with more than a simple swear.

Later, later, after Robin has gone back to his hotel and Sean is left in the care of his doctors, he's escorted to the bathroom one last time before bed. It's peculiar, the feeling of deja vu, as he steps in alone. Maybe it's the emptiness in his chest, the emotions having leaked out with his tears. Or maybe it's that familiar buzzing in his head as he stares into the mirror, stares at his worse-for-wear reflection. A reflection that still miraculously looks like him, despite the injuries (well on their way to healing), despite the lack of his usual smile or cheerful demeanor.

But worse-for-wear is better than dead, and it's that sort of thought that finally brings back the smile to his face. He'll recover. He'll heal. He'll be okay. And that's all that matters now.

So he shakes off that impending sense of deja vu and the tendrils of negativity that had clung to him and goes about his business. Soon enough he'd be back to his life. Soon enough he'd be out of here.

Finishing up by washing his hands, Jack leaves his reflection behind as he steps out of that bathroom and back to the ward.

With that reflection, a word lingers there. Decaying, decaying, rotten in its totality. **_Li̵a͘r._**

* * *

I should also say as a warning that, because of the nature of Jack's memory plot that disorientating scene shifts like the one in this chapter won't be super uncommon. They won't be every chapter, but they're intrinsic to this plot by nature. So if they need to be warned for tell me (comment or PM) and I'll start warning for them.


	3. Chapter 2: Meeting

"What's up fellow gamers? It's me, your boy, Jackspedicy. Coming to you live at the-" Coughs swell in Jack's chest, interrupting his playful intro and breathless laugh- "at the local hospital. By jaysus." He curls up, just slightly, so that his free arm is trapped between his chest and the white blanket covering his legs. He then wrestles it out to lift up that hand once more, lifting one finger up as a sign for the camera (and Robin, whom had taken a step forward in concern) to wait. The pain that had pushed up against his ribs subsides a moment later. "Sorry, I'm not in the tip-toppest shape at the moment as you can plainly see. Um," he chuckles, it's quiet and trailing and not at all full, careful to not cause another swell of pain in his chest. "It's a long story, and I don't want to get too into it? I was in an accident and I'm making this video to assure everyone that I'm fine. Your boy may not be indestructible, but he is at _least_ damn near immortal. Hey, what's that look for?"

Robin snickers just behind the camera. Of course, laughter is highly contagious to him so it's not even a moment later when Jack is laughing a little as well. "S-Stop that dude, c'mon! Trying to make an update video here." Despite the words, though, he's still smiling, still chuckling softly, until it all dies back down and they're both calm and collected. "And I thought _I_ was the giggly bitch. Damn. Um." Another short chuckle, "Where was I? Oh yeah. So back onto the subject of this video; I probably won't be able to record for a bit? I have some stuff pre-recorded but I don't know if that'll last the whole recovery process. If I start running out of videos I'll try and see if I can record but no promises there. So don't worry, if I suddenly stop uploading I'm _not dead_. Maybe nearly dead, but not— no." And again he interrupts himself with a laugh, "No I'm not gonna make that joke. Some of ye are bound to take it seriously. Anyway, I can't do my full normal outro here cause I don't want to pull anything out, but I'll still see all you dudes in the next video. Take it easy y'all."

—

Sean frowns, looking back up at Robin - whom is also looking at _him_ expectantly- from the laptop screen. "I...don't remember recording this."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Yeah. When did we record this, exactly?"

"Uh, yesterday."

"No, what _day_?"

Robin makes a slightly confused hum as he pulls out his phone, "Today's what? Wednesday? So I guess Tuesday."

He looks back down at the video, scrubbing the red bar back to start it over. Jack, the him from Tuesday, restarts his intro and rambles on. No editing out the coughing fit. No cutting to different takes. It's just all him, unedited and untouched. The him from Tuesday. "A whole day and I don't even fucking remember it. What the hell…"

"I thought you said that this happens all the time?"

"Yeah, _hours_. I'm used to missing _hours_. But a whole day?" He shakes his head, setting the laptop aside. "Nu-huh. Nah man. Not a whole day. This is new."

"Well, what do you want to do about it?"

"I don't know. I've been to so many doctors that at this point I don't really know if there's anything _left_ to do about it." He sighs, but doesn't let himself dwell on that thought for long. PMA, after all. It wasn't hopeless, and up until now he had been mostly fine. Especially because of his- "Actually, do you think you could stop by my house and get my journal? It should be in my room."

"Yeah, sure. What does it look like?"

"Thanks. It's blue, small, and spiral bound." He shakes his head, "Man, I didn't really think I'd need it in a _hospital_ of all places but I guess I was wrong. You still have the spare key, right?"

Robin fishes around in one pocket and produces it a moment later, spinning it around his finger via the keychain. "Yep."

"Okay, okay. No need to show off now."

"Dude, if you think this is showing off then that's just sad."

"Listen-" But he can't keep a straight face and quickly breaks out into a fit of giggles. "Dammit."

"Y'know we're doing this bit and we're not even recording right now?"

"I know, I've just been so damn giggly lately and I don't know why!"

Robin snickers, "Maybe the pain medicine is making you all loopy."

Slouching as dramatically as possible, Sean lifts up one arm and slurs, "Well, youu tell me doctor. Do I sound...even a _bit_ loopy te you?"

They laugh again, lost in their own antics and small pieces of normality.

And then the moment is over, gone as quickly as it had appeared. The laughter subsides into quietness, a comfortable kind of quiet, but quiet all the same. Sean lowers his arm, Robin starts heading towards the door, and all returns to their reality of the hospital.

"Wait." It suddenly hits him, and he's not sure how he hadn't thought of it sooner, "How long are you planning on staying? It's already been like a week."

"Uh, well you get out in the next couple of days right? I was thinking of staying for another week once you're out."

"You sure? I can't imagine it'll be all that fun for you."

"Yeah man, it's all good. Besides, I'm sure there's something we can do together while you're recovering."

Maybe it's his expression, or the way he sits back up and doesn't answer right away, but something prompts Robin to speak again. A small reassurance. "Really, don't worry about it. It's fine." Sean is grateful for it all the same.

"If you're sure then...do you want to stay over? The hotel can't be all that cheap."

All it took was a moment and a slight shift in expression for Sean to realize he had said something strange. A furrow of his eyebrows, a funny look to his eyes, a smile that looked almost more like a grimace - Sean knew them well enough. "...I already invited you to stay didn't I?"

"Yeah. When you gave me the spare key a couple days ago."

"Oh."

"Are you sure you're okay? I know you said that this is normal but that can't be good."

"I don't know man." And he didn't. He really didn't. The frequency that it was happening lately was frightening. But this was just a small slip, not really something out of the ordinary for him, right? "I've just been a little spacey lately. But I'm sure it's fine. It's just the medicine messing with me or something."

Robin looks at him oddly again, but this time he doesn't get a chance to say anything else, "If you say so. I'll be back in a little bit."

Sean nods, watching his friend go, before being left on his own amongst the bustle of patients and doctors around him. He plays with the hem of the blanket, twirling it around in hands until it's so bunched up that his feet stick out at the other end. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. And yet he grabs the laptop again regardless, opening it to the Youtube video once more.

He scrubs through the video again and again and again. He watches all the little quirks that make up him - the way he speaks, moves, laughs, gestures - that he _knows_ he does, but can't remember doing. Watched watches watches.

By jayzes it was like he was watching an actor. Or a really convincing piece of 3D animation. Or a really realistic puppet, moved by invisible strings. But not him. Never him.

Is this what it felt like to his fans as they watched him talk and joke and laugh? Is this what it felt like? Like they were watching a snippet of him and nothing more? A cardboard cut out of him? Just one facet that they could never peer deeper into?

Like the Jack in the video and him, _Sean_ , were separate people?

He slams the laptop lid closed, as if he were closing the tracks to that train of thought before it spiraled out of control. _Don't dwell._ He then stuffs it back into its case and slips out of bed. _Don't dwell._ Holding both the strap of the case and the IV stand in one hand he makes his way towards the nurse's station. _Don't dwell._ (Since he had graduated to just the pain medication, the only thing stopping him from really walking around now was his strength, or lack-thereof.)

"Hey, would it be alright if I just took a small walk around the hospital? I could really use exercise right now," he asks, putting on his sincerest smile. _Don't. Dwell._

A nurse with blond hair and kind eyes (Stacy, he thinks her name was) looks up at him from her work computer. "Yes of course, go right ahead. Do you need a nurse's aid?"

"Oh no, no I'm fine. It's just for a short walk. I just can't stand sitting in bed any longer. Feel like I'm going insane, y'know?"

"I totally understand, it's not easy being cooped up in one place for too long. I suggest heading over to the hospital garden. It's on this floor and it's a great place to just relax in. There are even benches so that you can rest there."

"Thanks, I think I will happily take that suggestion." He sets the laptop bag on top of the desk. "Would you mind keeping this back there with you until I get back? I'm not really comfortable just leaving this on my bed."

"Of course."

He doesn't shove it onto the desk, really, but it slides further than intended and nearly hits Stacy's station. "Sorry." Sean smiles again but doesn't linger, "I'll be back soon."

His leave is hasty but he doesn't dwell on it. Doesn't linger. All he wants is to get that thought out of his head, that maggot of an idea that just kept burrowing further and further. It's irrational; it's stupid, obviously untrue. But he can't deny the fact that the person he can't remember being is completely and utterly a stranger to him compared to the person he consciously is.

It's not long before the white of the hall fades into the green of painted vines and the red of faux flowers. It's a welcome change (the white of the hospital was already ingrained in his head by now) even if it's only paint. But then all it takes him is another few feet down the hall and he's met with the opening to the garden.

The first thing he notices is the chirping of grasshoppers and the shrill song of cicadas. It's played through a speaker, it has to be, but even so it brings back the familiarity of summer. Of warm days and warm memories and warm conversations. He walks along the winding path, takes in the green of the grass and of the leaves of bushes and of the few trees planted there. He slips his other arm out of its sling and brushes bandaged fingers against foliage as he walks. The plants rustle at his touch. Somehow, it brings a smile to his face.

Other patients linger around the benches with loved ones, but despite being extroverted he decides against bothering any of them and opts for an empty bench under a lone tree near the back. He takes a moment, leaning against the back, and allows himself to relax. Closing his eyes, he only focuses on the environment around him. Let's his thoughts fall away into nothingness, and let's everything else be consumed by the singing of insects and the crisp smell of foliage.

And, for a moment, all is calm.

 ** _"Şeá̷n̡~"_**

He shoots straight up as the voice glitches in his ear. It's electric and sing-songy, almost if not outright mocking, and worms its way into his brain. "H-Hello?" Twisting in his seat, he looks around but finds no one, hears no one. Not even the sounds of the singing cicadas. "Who's there?"

 ** _"Did ͠y̡ou forge̛t about̵ m̡e̢, ͟Se͢a҉n?̵"_**

Standing, Sean looks around again, this time electing to round the bench and head towards the tree where he spies a figure just under it. "What?" The voice is familiar, he's had to have heard it recently, but he can't place it. Can't place why it stays with him like a parasite.

 ** _"Did ͢y̵o̷u?̵"_**

"What are you talking about?" He takes another step forwards, but wobbles as pain bursts in his skull. It's like a vice, squeezing against his temples, threatening to crush his head.

A giggle - contorted and loud and _wrong_ \- crawls up his spine like static to a TV. **_"S̶o wea̛̕k̕.̧"͟͞_**

"What the hell..?" He spins around, tries to find where the voice was coming from now, but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

 ** _"Şe_** _á̷_ n."

He jumps, a strange sense of deja-vu washing over him, and jerks out of the hold. But the sudden movement only causes him to lose balance, the world tipping as he falls back-

"Whoa, whoa, easy now." And then he's caught, two hands on his shoulders as he's gently helped back up.

"Robin?" Sean wants to laugh in relief, really, he does, but a wisp of paranoia still clings to him that he can't quite shake. "What are you doing-"

"I need you to stay calm for me while I get a nurse."

His heart rate quickens, "Why would you- Oh fuck."

Blood drips down as he holds up one arm. The sensation of liquid warmth against his skin is familiar and, vaguely, he recalls that memory (dream?) of wandering through the halls, endless, endless. In his panic he must have ripped out the IV. Panic from… From what? His mind blanks. What had just…?

"Hey, hey. C'mon, you're alright."

"No, no it's not- I-I'm fine, it's not from-" His gaze trained on a patch of grass just behind Robin, he tries to think, remember what had just happened. "I… I think I was just talking to someone?"

"Sean, I know you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you, but I need you to listen to me." Robin's staring at him intently, he can feel his gaze boring into him, concern dripping from his voice. "When I found you there wasn't anyone else there."

"What?"

"There wasn't anyone else there. Could it have been a lapse and you were talking to someone earlier?"

"I-" He thinks back, tries to recall the words spoken to him. Something about forgetting…? "I-I don't know." Finally his gaze levels with Robin's, and with as much confidence as he could muster, he says once more, "I don't know."


	4. Chapter 3: Home Pt 1

How long had it been since him and Sean had last properly hung out?

Robin peaks over from his food station in the kitchen, setting down a bag of cheese as he does so. Jack sits on the sofa, legs curled up next to him and his back to Robin, staring at the TV. They were watching Game of Thrones, or they were supposed to be, but Jack was suspiciously still and quiet. Considering how spacey he had been lately (especially after the incident at the hospital) Robin wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't paying attention at all.

With a sigh, Robin goes back to the sandwiches.

That was the problem now, wasn't it? However long it's been, it's been way too long. But with Jack like this, well... He supposed that, in the end, it meant he'd have to make these last few days the best days he possibly could. Especially since it would do them _both_ some good to just relax and not think.

He swirls the mustard in a yellow circle, not really for any reason at all, and sets the other piece of bread on top. Then he moves on to make another one, a half this time for Sean whose medicine had been messing with his appetite.

And that would have to start with making their sandwiches right.

"Hey, you wanted turkey right?" When there's no answer, though, he frowns but doesn't immediately move. "Sean?" When there's no answer again he sets down the sandwich meat and rounds the small counter. Definitely spacing out again… "Jack, hey. You hear me bud?"

"Huh?" Surprise laces Jack's voice as he twists or at least _tries_ to twist around. Instead, halfway through, he winces and doubles over. Instinctively grabbing a pillow, he jolts his legs up to trap it between his chest and thighs while his journal falls way onto the sofa cushion. (To help with the pain, Robin remembers vaguely, or that's what the doctor had said.) "Fuck."

"Sorry." Robin sits down on the opposite end of the couch - just on the arm - apologetic smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't mean to make you turn like that."

After a few breaths, Jack uncurls a little and looks back at Robin (this time without turning). His fingers twirl a still-attached piece of thread between them as he speaks. "It's fine. Not like you were the one to break 'em. Fucking bastard." A sharp snap and Jack breaks off that thread from the pillow still against his chest. He plays with it between his fingers, wrapping it around and around and around, gaze never leaving it as he favors it over eye contact with Robin.

"Hey," Robin starts, swinging his legs around so that he was sitting on the couch proper. Maybe this wasn't the best time, but he couldn't let it lie now. Jack was coiling the thread around his finger, tight enough that it whitened the skin that it choked, while glaring at no one in particular. Maybe he'd get snapped at (odd, for Jack, but a possibility nonetheless), but to leave him like this without even trying to ask if he was okay felt wrong. Was wrong. "Are you-"

But even as he speaks he only manages to get a couple of words out before he's cut off. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

"You're-"

"I'm sure. Let's just drop it, okay? I'm fine."

It's definitely a dismissal, and quite frankly it wasn't that unexpected, but something about it doesn't sit right with Robin. Maybe it was the tone of voice, or the way he wouldn't quite look at him, but it unsettles him in ways he never thought one of his best friends ever would. Besides, if anything, he wouldn't word it like that. Wouldn't be so harsh with it enough that it would sting a little. "Sean-"

"Anyways, why we're you trying to get my attention earlier?"

"Uhm." He flounders, not expecting the sudden change in topic, and takes a second to collect his thoughts. This was going nowhere, and he didn't want to end up in an argument. "I wanted to know what you wanted on your sandwich." So he guessed he'd just have to let it lie for now.

"Roast beef."

"Wha- Are you sure?" It really shouldn't surprise him, small things seemed to slip easily from Jack's memory, but somehow it still does. He chews on his lip thoughtfully, just for a moment, before continuing on. "I, uh, I thought you said you wanted turkey earlier."

"Had I?" Somehow, it's not really a question. "Well, I changed my mind."

"Al..right then. Roast beef it is."

This time all he gets in reply is a nod. The thread is left forgotten, along with the pillow, as he lays them aside and reaches for his journal again. Briefly Robin spies a sketched doodle hidden along the words on the open page – a rough doodle of a familiar figure with dark eyes and a large grin – but he quickly looks away a second later to respect privacy. That said, he really wants to comment on it (both on the picture and Jack's lack of verbal reply) but decides against it. Whatever mood Jack was in, he wasn't going to get through to him right now. So, instead, he stands and heads back to the kitchen.

It's odd, really. How Jack was acting. It was like there was something there, something he couldn't really perceive, in that strange mood of his. He's not sure what it is. Not sure what he needed to do to help him. Because pushing further wasn't working. But he was certain that Sean did want help, wanted whatever was wrong to pass. Maybe it was the pain, or the lack of things they could really do together because of his ribs, stitches, and sprained wrist. Whatever it was, it was obviously a problem.

He tosses the bag of turkey back into the fridge - into the little drawer that held the sandwich meats and cheese - and grabs the roast beef.

When he really thought about it, Jack acted like this at that time too: the day he was released from the hospital. Dark rimmed eyes, pale skin, odd emotions. The memory was so vivid still, like they had never left the hospital that day…

* * *

Robin steps into the ward, bag of clothes in one hand. Despite no longer being the ICU the amount of patients and doctors hadn't diminished at all; he still had to be careful as he walked through the aisle made by the beds as to not run into anyone.

There he was; third bed down, against the wall, sat Jack. Curled up and against the headboard, his journal rests in his lap and against his legs while he stares down at it. Robin goes to greet him, but when he draws close enough to see him better he stops short and hesitates.

Now, if there was one thing that Sean Mcloughlin was, it was not silent. Not at all. Of course, this was not to say that he was an obnoxiously loud person (really, he wasn't), but still he absolutely _radiated_ energy. Talking and doing were the only two things he really knew how to do well. If there was silence, Jack couldn't help but fill the void with noise, even if there was no one there to hear. And if someone was upset he'd rather do something to help - even if it meant just chatting away or doing something absolutely stupid - than to just sit idle and let them be. Sitting silent and still really was the antitheses of who Jack _was_ , even on a fundamental level.

And yet here he was, doing exactly that as he concentrated on his journal. Pencil scratching against the page, it moved more than Jack's chest did as he breathed. Almost as if the pencil itself was dancing. Vaguely, Robin wonders if Sean should be writing, but quickly shakes off the thought as he realizes it was no longer splinted. His wrist must have healed enough to use at least, even if it remained tightly wrapped in gauze.

Of course, there was always his stitches...

No, in the end Sean was a grown man who could take care of himself and Robin would respect that.

But, even with that thought, it still worried him just how quiet he was. Unable to take just standing there and watching any longer, especially now that he was noticing the dark circles under his eyes, Robin walks over with a smile.

"Hey, bud, how are you feeling now that you're not high off of pain meds?"

Jack looks up, wearing a peculiar expression. Eyes burning, mouth drawn in a frown, eyebrows pulled down - if he didn't know him any better, Robin's first assumption would have been anger. But just as that thought crosses his mind, the expression is gone. It's a quick transition – he smiles and his eyes twinkle like there was no problem in the world – so quick, in fact, that it leaves Robin off balanced and doubting what he had seen.

"Honestly I kinda miss it. Now I gotta actually deal with pain and all that bullshit." He blinks, gaze going to the bag in Robin's hand. "Oh hey, you actually brought me clothes!"

Odd. Suppressing a frown, Robin watches him carefully while he leaves the bag on the bed. It slumps without support, wrinkling the red fabric. "What, I was just going to leave you in that hospital gown, ass hanging out?"

"Well I would hope not." He zips open the bag, pulling out boxers, pants and his Berlin jumper. "Damn I haven't worn this thing in ages. Where did you find it?"

"Oh, it was buried in one of your drawers. I didn't know what to bring so I just dug around randomly until I found something."

"Huh."

Robin let's him sit like that just for a minute, staring down at the pieces of clothing. He wonders about the reaction but doesn't say anything about it. Of course, it might not really be about the specific pieces of clothing at all. Not really. Because, now that he thought about it, there was an issue with this whole 'getting dressed thing' that neither of them had brought up.

"Hey, Robin?"

"Yeah?"

It seemed like Sean had realized it too.

"I...might need help getting my shirt on. Y'know, because of my ribs?"

"I mean you could always just walk around shirtless."

"I could, but I don't particularly _want_ to." Sean goes quiet for a moment. "I was going to try it first on my own anyways, so I mean if you don't want to I could probably-"

"I'm just messing with you. I don't mind."

Sean smiles, it's faint but there. "Thanks Robin. You've been really helpful lately."

"Of course man."

There's a pause. Sean looks at him, looks as if he wants to say more, but he never does. Instead he leaves those words - those words that needed to be said - voiceless and silent between them.

"Alright, let's fucking _do this_."

* * *

It's still the same as back then. Robin sees it still, the way Sean would sneak glances and hesitate whenever needing help, only to choke down words that he had been obviously about to voice. It was weird. It was definitely weird.

It was also worrying.

But he doesn't know how to broach it, especially if all he was going to get in response is Jack's dismissal like earlier.

With a frustrated sigh he flops the last piece of bread onto Jack's sandwich and grabs the bag of chips from the cabinet. He then takes the food over, somewhat grateful that they already had their sodas on the coffee table.

This time he doesn't have to get Sean's attention in order for him to give him his food. When he sits down Sean looks up from his journal and smiles. "You're the best Robin," he says in his mock-cutesy voice, taking the plate.

"Oh I know I'm the best. You don't have to tell me twice."

It's a light laugh, because anything more would definitely hurt, but it was there and Robin can't help but smile at it. "Seriously though, thank you. It means a lot."

"Dude it's just a sandwich."

"I know but you've been helping me out a lot lately while I've been pretty…" He trails off into quiet, but Robin doesn't need the last few words to fill in the blanks. "It can't be fun for you," he finishes softly.

For a while he just stares at Sean and then his own plate, thinking, thinking. Had this been what he was worried about this whole time? Was there something more? Honestly, he didn't know, didn't think he could figure it out even if he tried. Not with Jack's refusal to talk about it. But this at least he could help with. This at least he knew what to do. "Dude, we've been over this. I don't mind." When he gets no response, he continues, "If you're really that worried about it though we could play some games? Um, call up Ethan or Mark or something?"

Sean looks up at him, blinking, not saying anything at all. It's like he hadn't considered that that was an option, or that maybe he expected a different response from Robin. Whatever it was, it falls away in a matter of seconds as he smiles and finally replies. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."

Robin smiles as well, leaning back with his plate in hand and sandwich in another. And at least for now he can say that he's content with how things were going.

"…Roast beef?"


	5. Chapter 4: Home Pt 2

Shadows caress his face like ghosts, engulfing him and the room in their totality. Sean tries to ignore them, staring blankly at the TV screen as it played some movie, reminding himself quietly that it wasn't real. That they were never real, just his mind playing tricks on him in the dead of night. "C'mon Jackaboy, they're nothing more than just some shadows."

But it doesn't change a thing; it doesn't change that those shadows were there regardless of how real or non-real they were and that they were only there at all because of his insomnia.

Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he tries to count up - _1...2...3..._ \- but even as he reaches 20 he's no closer to sleep than he was at 1. God why can't he just sleep? Why did his brain have to be so ineffective at one of its most basic jobs? If Robin wasn't there, he'd probably have paced the length of the house by now. Back and forth, back and forth, just to see if maybe he could pass out somewhere along the way. But doing that would definitely wake up Robin, which would either annoy him or concern him and neither of those were appealing.

So he sits there for who knows how long, until he's sure it's well past midnight and he can no longer sit still with those lingering shadows. It's then that he decides that, if he's going to be up, that he could at least take care of his stitches (as much as he trusts Robin, the thought of him helping with that, even touching them, made his breathing shudder with unrestrained and unexpected anxiety, so it was only right if he did it when Robin wasn't up or around).

Body like lead, he pushes off the couch and starts walking towards the bathroom, heavy and dragging. If anyone could see him right now, he's sure he'd look like a zombie which in of itself was sort of an amusing thought. As zombie-like as he probably looked, at least he didn't have a craving for human flesh.

God did he wish someone was up so he could share that thought. As it was, all there was were those shadows enveloping the hall and clinging to his heels.

Quietly he reminds himself again that they're not real when he shudders at another touch. Relief only washes over him though when he enters the bathroom and flicks on the light, banishing the shadows from him, breathing easing up a little.

When he reaches the sink he avoids looking at the mirror and works on unfurling the gauze. They fall in rivulets, coiling up in the sink and then again in the trash when he throws them away. He then works on peeling his shirt off, grimacing as pain stabs his shoulders and chest as he raises his arms above his head. Somehow he still manages without anything more than a few grunts. He then abandons it in the corner after.

He doesn't take a moment or even stop when all the gauze is off his chest, _still_ doesn't let himself look in the mirror as he flicks on the faucet and cool water fills the sink. Bubbles erupt when he sprinkles soap in.

Carefully he washes around the stitches using the soapy water and a washcloth, keeping in mind about what his doctor had said about not rubbing them directly. It's a mindless process that he eases into easily - he snickers to himself as it only furthers his earlier zombie comparison - and it's even therapeutic in a way as he lets his brain just shut off. There's nothing to think about, nothing to even say, nothing to do but this. The shadows, the lack of sleep, and the time all slip from his mind and the rest of the house just falls away. He's the only one here and the only room that was left was just the bathroom. Just. The bathroom.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

But then, when he reaches to dip the cloth in the water again, he finally catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It shatters the quiet moment, hitting him like the car that had landed him in the hospital. Water splatters all over his shirt and the sink as the cloth is dropped into the filled basin, his breathing shuddering. He's reminded of _exactly_ what time it was, that in several hours he and Robin would be hanging out with friends, that he'd have to talk and laugh and play a game and somehow manage to be present when he was dog-tired. That he'd definitely still be a mindless zombie for the rest of the day if he didn't get some semblance of sleep tonight.

Those mind-numbing hours just keep stacking on top of him. All the hours he had missed of sleep tonight, last night, the night before then, and then with all the terrible sleep in between then and his first night of insomnia, the night of the garden incident as well.

The garden incident.

At the thought of it - at the hazy and vague memory - his breathing ceases completely. Distorted laughter and electric taunts, they were indiscernible between illusion and reality and that was the exact thing he had been trying not to think about this whole time. Sometimes he could still hear them, if he sat still in the quiet long enough and just listened.

Because of his insomnia, he wasn't a stranger to hallucinations; the strange shadows, no matter how anxiety-inducing they could be, were his constant companions during nights he couldn't sleep but didn't have the energy to talk to someone or even record. Almost as if his mind wanted to keep him company. But the garden was different than that. What had happened back then was different than that. Even after a bout of disorientation he had always been able to tell that there had been a big lapse in the first place and even small ones he could catch easily once given the clues for. And as real as they were to him he usually had a grip enough on reality that he could tell when something was a hallucination or not.

But even in hindsight he couldn't tell if either of those were true. The only thing he was certain of was that _if_ it was a memory lapse it certainly hadn't felt like one. But a hallucination? It was so vivid... Could it really have been one?

Vaguely he recalls the doctors trying to get him to stay an extra night in the ICU right after that, after Robin had fetched a frazzled nurse and he had been led back to his bed. The garden had been practically empty then, save for a few lingering patients, but that's all he can remember. The smell of the garden had already faded from memory and save for that tree he can't quite remember what plants had even been there.

And after that? Well what was left of that memory had been hard to hold onto as is. He's written and sketched it all down constantly since then, desperate to hold onto at least _some_ of it. Maybe it was a little obsessive, but there's something about forgetting that terrifies him. Like he _has_ to remember, like it was the most important thing in the world.

He's never told Robin any of this, of course; not only was he worried enough as it was (when originally this was supposed to be a couple of weeks of just hanging out and catching up with some recording mixed in), he'd probably think he was insane. And, well, he didn't want that. He was already doubting himself enough as is, he didn't need anyone else added on top of that.

So even if it was just paranoia, or even he was just being irrational, he'll keep documenting it without saying a word as long as it felt important.

 _B͝reathe you i̛diot._

He blinks as the thought(?) invades his mind, finally noticing the stars that had littered his vision. _Oh fuck._ The gasp is deep and _hurts_ but it just proves that he's still here and present and, in the end, that's all that really matters. It takes him a second but he manages one breath after the other, and then another one, and another one. In and out, slowly but surely.

Fuck.

He had thought he had been handling it, but evidently not.

He mentally kicks himself. The dreams (nightmares?) and then the immediate bout of insomnia straight after getting out of the hospital should have been a clue to that.

 _No, stop that. It'll be alright, you'll figure it out. You'll be fine._ He repeats this to himself over and over and over until it's pretty much a mantra alongside his PMA. It, along with the feeling of the smooth edge of the tub in his grip, grounds him and it's a few minutes later when he's finally calm. It's at this point that he doesn't want to move quite yet, afraid to break that sudden calm. So he gives himself a few minutes as he comes up with a plan for the following days. (Because obviously this was a problem, but he wasn't just going to sit around and let it continue to be a problem. That just wasn't him.)

1\. Get through tomorrow.

1.1 Try to drink a lot of coffee if sleep proves elusive.

1.2 Take a nap if he can if coffee doesn't work.

2\. Research, see if anything similar has happened to anyone else without any known mental illness.

3\. Do **not tell Robin.**

4\. Try and stay positive - it's okay to get kicked down, but don't stay down.

So, with all of that in mind, he pushes himself up, dries himself off, and then reapplies the bandages. He takes one final look in the mirror and his reflection - at first defiant of the panic it had initially caused only to shiver as he's taken by the sudden feeling of unfamiliarity - before he shuts off the light and leaves for the living room again. Maybe he could get at least an hour of rest...

* * *

Somehow he manages two hours of light sleep, but even with it the following day results in a hazy mess. Despite that, though, he manages to stay positive because, in the end, no matter how tired he was he had plans for today and he wasn't going to let himself or his brain ruin it.

"Wanna bet Mark's up?"

Because even though those plans were simple they were still pretty damn important.

"Huh?" Sean glances over at him, "I doubt it, but if you're thinking of calling him then I guess it's worth a shot."

Robin shrugs and pulls the laptop towards himself from the coffee table. "I don't see why not."

"Alrighty-" Carefully he gets up off the couch, being mindful of his still healing ribs and still-sore wrist, and heads towards the kitchen- "I'm going to go and get some more of that good ol' dirty been water then while you call Fischfuck."

From somewhere behind him, he hears a snicker, "'Fischfuck'?"

"Hey! It's a term of endearment."

The kettle is strangely heavy as he pours water into it, some of it splashing right back up and soaking his shirt in the process. He holds back a couple of curses and decides to then focus on _not_ spilling it any further, the stream of water pouring from the tap like a waterfall.

It ends up taking all of his concentration, so much so that he doesn't notice the water spilling over the top and spout and all over his hands until a familiar voice snaps him out of it.

 _"-if Fischfuck is a term of endearment, then what about Irish Bastard?"_

The kettle nearly drops from his hands as he startles, the water loudly splashing against the basin of the sink and draining away. Somewhere, whether it be deep in the back of his mind or somewhere off in the distance of the house, he hears a faint and distorted giggle, mocking him. It grates on his nerves but he somehow manages to ignore it as he reminds himself that, with how tired he was, it was probably another hallucination. Besides, he didn't want to dwell on it and end up moping around all day. Not like yesterday (which, admittedly, was sort of spotty).

He sets the kettle down and shuts off the water. "Who're you callin' an Irish Bastard?" Sean shoots back, drying off, well, pretty much everything at this point.

 _"Well, who are you calling Fischfuck?"_

"Okay ladies, settle down now. You can both work this out over some coffee, pizza, and a nice, simple game of Monopoly."

There's silence but it doesn't last long as Sean is (unsurprisingly) the first to break it. He muffles his laugh through the cloth he holds but it's still loud enough to be infectious as Mark is next. Robin is last, unable to keep straight-faced as Mark bursts into laughter in front of him over Discord video chat.

Somehow, Sean is able to laugh despite the pain in his chest this time.

"Y'know, nice an' simple is _not_ how I would describe Monopoly."

 _"Yeah! It's **at least** friendship-ruining."_

"Eh, to-may-to, to-mah-to, nice, friendship-ruining. What's the difference?"

"I'm pretty sure there's a _huge_ difference, actually," he points out as he picks up the kettle again.

Mark seems to say something in agreement, but the conversation slips from him as he concentrates on where to put the kettle. Which was...

...

Oh.

He blinks, the stove and the kitchen as a whole finally registering in his field of vision, nearly dropping the kettle in the process as his concentration on that slips momentarily too.

 _...Maybe Robin should be making the coffee,_ he thinks as he sets the pot on an (already on) burner.

But even if he knows this somewhere deep down he really doesn't want to bother Robin again. Him and Mark are laughing, still going on about god knows what as he does this, and something about asking for help and interrupting that curls guilt (and anger, though for whom or what he doesn't know) deep within his gut.

So he says nothing, despite his better judgement, and sets out to grind the coffee to prepare it for his french press. It's loud, grating - internally he lightly jokes about how that's how it must feel like to watch one of his videos - and he puts in way too many beans for how much he wants to make, but in the end it's fine. Because he doesn't interrupt them. Because it's a small task and, no matter how hard it was to complete when absolutely exhausted, it doesn't matter at all compared to what was coming up. He cares for having fun with friends more than a simple mishap with the grinder or with the water or even than a slip of his conscious memory vs muscle memory.

Finally, after another few minutes of waiting for the water and the coffee beans alike, he's able to pour the water in and steep them. The pouring proves difficult as he nearly burns his hands in the process, but he manages without incident. He then heads back over to rejoin the conversation while he waited for the coffee to finish.

 _"Wow, you look like shit."_

That anger curls in his stomach again, which makes his skin crawl. Why was he angry?

 _Pleasant͘ as a̧lwa̵ys._

Sean blinks at the odd, passive-aggressive thought(?), unsure of where it even came from. Was that really how he felt? But he shakes it off a moment later, though it's not forgotten as he decided to figure it out in private later, and says, curbing his tone so it doesn't come out as harsh, "I know." He then adds with an attempt at a small, sheepish, smile, "But I'll be better once I have some coffee."

 _"I swear to god you worship that stuff."_

He shrugs and looks off to the corner. Well, not quite "looks", but more his attention is pulled away to something moving; a shadow, familiar and yet somehow not. It's gone the minute he turns his gaze to it. "Look man, I'm not exactly the religious type but if there was a religion dedicated to some sort of coffee god I'd join it," he jokes.

When he looks back, though, they're both eyeing him strangely. He's unsure as to why and, weirder still, for the first time in what would eventually become many he's put on edge by their prying _(worried, not prying, worried)_ gazes. "I'm just tired," he says, partly for himself, partly so that they'd stop looking at him like that.

 _"Y'know, we could always play Monopoly tomorrow."_

"Yeah, it's really alright."

Sean shakes his head. "No, I want to play it today. I can't promise I'll be any good at it-" he says this with a laugh- "Considering, but if I'm going to be tired I'd rather spend it with you guys than being mopey about it. PMA, right?"

They're both smiling at him now -Robin's small but sincere and Mark's crooked and bright. He can't help but smile back.

 _"Alright, if you're sure then let me see if any of the other guys are ready then."_

"Sounds great. I am going to go and get my coffee."

* * *

It's after another hour - and one pizza delivery later - before the other guys are ready to play. By then Sean's practically dozing on the couch, his half-drunk and cold coffee cradled in his hands. He's not quite sure when the conversation had slipped from him again, or when the other guys had joined them, but when he hears his name and a greeting he looks back over at his laptop and gives a small wave along with a tired smile. They (Mark, Wade, Bob, Ethan and Robin) talk then for awhile, catching each other up on their busy lives, with Sean joining in on the conversation on and off, whenever he focused his attention enough to do so.

He's so tired, but it's not bad somehow. Before, whenever he was all alone, it was a cold sort of tired - devoid of life aside from him, the house was silent and solitary and brought no sort of comfort during the long hours - but now he wasn't alone. Now, with the chatter and the company, and Wade's complaints or Ethan's nonsense laughs or whatever mischief his friends easily got into by just talking alone, it's a warm sort of tired. Like he's being hugged, or he was wrapped in a blanket, fireplace in front of him and a hot chocolate in his hands. _(It's vague - most of his childhood was lost to him due to his memory problems - but no matter how vague he still remembers that same sort of warmth he feels now. Remembers a real fireplace and remembers his family even if he can't remember why they had all gathered and remembers feeling so happy he could have cried but didn't.)_

"C'mon Jack, it's your turn!"

But no matter how warm it is, no matter how content, no matter how tired, he couldn't dwell on it. There was a virtual capitalistic war to win, after all. And that took no warmth at all.

"Alright, alright. Calm down so the master can show you how it's done."

He rolls a 4, of course, because Monopoly's a bitch, and lands on income tax; bringing him down from 5.24 million dollars to 3.24 million. To further add insult to injury, it couldn't even give him a double so he could roll again. Everyone laughs as he grumbles over it, but he can't be angry at them and almost laughs himself. Almost.

 _"Thank you for the introduction Jack,"_ Wade says after they've all settled. _"Now let the **actual** master show you how it's done."_

Wade's not much better off, rolling a 7 and passing Go, but still managing to land on income tax as well and voiding his 2 million pay-day.

 _"Oh come on! This game hates me."_

 _"Says the man in first place,"_ Bob shoots back.

"Yeah wait a minute; I'm the one in last place here," Sean says. "You're the one with 9 million-"

 _"10 million, nearly 11 million,"_ Mark interjects.

"Right, 10 million dollars. All I got is 3!"

 _"To be fair, some of that was just bad playing on your part,"_ Ethan says.

"Okay, but can you blame me? I'm running on a couples hours' sleep and a few cups of coffee. The fact I'm playing at all is pretty damn amazing."

This time it's Robin's turn to talk, "I think he's got you there."

 _"Alright. And who's fault is that, exactly?"_

Sean knows it's just a joke, a common retort they always shot at each other for banter - it's not like Wade (or was it Mark? Ethan? None of them sounded similar but it was hard to keep up when so tired…) meant any harm by it. But still it rubbed him wrong, like-

 _"L͘i̛ke̢ ͜t̕h͏e̵y̛ don'͏t ̵e̶veņ ̶c̷a̸r͠e̛,̡ r̷ig̵ht ͏J͢ac͞k̕ab̛oy?"_

Somehow Sean retains his dignity enough not to scream, but still the garbled voice _is right in his ear and he can feel breathing down his neck but he can't move, can't do anything-_

 _"Lơơk ̕at them̢, ̕pla̴ying the͢ ̶g̛amę w͡it͘ho͜ut̴ ̴you͏. Not ̶even ͘b̧ot̕h͢e̛rįn͠g ̡to̕ ͘ch͜ec̢k͝ if you're͏ ͡oķąy̸."_

Jack wants to scream 'of course they're not checking, they're right there, they can see him on the face cam' but when he actually looks, actually checks his laptop, it's true. They haven't checked, haven't noticed, **how haven't they noticed-**

 _"But ҉t̷hat̢'s f̨ine̷."̵_

The paralyzing fear turns into something more as the world blurs.

 _"̢I͏ ͞k҉n͜ow ̷o̶f som̨eth͝i͡ng b͢et͡ter̨ we c͠a̴n̢ ̴d͜o."_

He can't keep his eyes open. Can't stay focused. He wants to yell, wants to scream, wants to do something because all of his instincts are telling him not to fall asleep (and yet somehow, too, they're saying the opposite - saying it's okay, it's safe, he can trust it, he needed the sleep - and it all jumbles around in his head). But he can't find his voice, can't even raise a hand to let them know.

And, as the world blurs away into darkness, the last words he hears echo in his ears:

 _"S̛weet̢ ̕d͝r̨eam̧s."̸_


	6. Chapter 5: The Start of Everything

AN: Sorry this chapter took so long. I hope you enjoy! Warning for some violence. You can check for specifics at the end along with zalgo translations.

* * *

Sean jolts up, gasping, only to curl in on himself as pain shoots through his chest and down his spine. Dipping and heaving, his surroundings are blurry, out of focus, causing nausea to crawl up his throat. Fearing he might vomit, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to make himself more motion sick.

After a few minutes of sitting like that, he cracks open one eye and peers out. But the room still spun and dipped and, when he makes to uncurl, pain still zaps his chest and spine. "Fuck." 999. He needs to call 999.

This time more gingerly, he uncurls fully and looks around. He thinks he's in his room.

But his phone certainly isn't when he checks the sheets and the side table and they both come up empty.

So he stumbles out of bed and somehow makes it to the door. He has find Robin.

The hall that lay before him is dark, familiarly so. Like when he had gone to the bathroom to take care of his stitches, along with something else. A different memory he couldn't quite grasp: a dark hallway, bathed in red. A mirror, just out of reach.

It's then, as he tries to remember, that warmth drips from his nose and onto the floor. He doesn't bother to stem the bleeding, doesn't have the awareness for it. It's just a nonsense sensation adrift in the sea of his pain.

"Robin?" His voice doesn't carry as it usually would as he makes his way down the darkened hallway. But even that stifled volume sends waves of pain through his lungs. "Robin?"

The only response he earns are whispers, worming their way into his ears, into his brain, saying _'your fault'_ and _'you deserve this'._ It makes his skin crawl and his hands itch to tear them off, to make it stop.

His fault for what? Is this that creature's doing? It must be, right? Those words from before - from when he were trapped helplessly on that couch while whatever it was had haunted him - were intermingling with the others. It quickly overrode them, until each and every single whisper sounded just. Like. It.

His breathing stutters at the memory (somehow still so vivid even though it should have faded by now) and the cruel words. He curls a hand up to his chest, clutching at his shirt. "Shut up. You're not here." Not real.

But they don't quiet. Instead, the whispers grow more intense, more frequent, until they might as well be white noise. Thick in his lungs, the air is dense with them. It weighs down on him, palpable against his skin. He feels the walls close in on him as he walks, rejecting him. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here.

Now, more than ever, he's sure that this wasn't his home.

It's then, at that realization, that the world gives another heave and Sean pitches forwards, smacking his shoulder against the wall. His body giving up, he slides down onto the ground. He needs to move, but can't. Needs to find Robin, but can't. Needs to get to his phone, but can't. Needs to escape, but can't.

It's right there. The living room is just right there. And yet he can't even move.

 _"͏Y̧ou̴ real͞l̶y ͜are **p͠at̕͠h̨e̛͞t̵͡i̵̵̡c.** Wha҉t happ͘en̢e͝d̛ ̷t̵o͞ yo͘u?"_

A complicated rush of fear and confusion and anger floods him. He doesn't look up, doesn't dare, but his head is jerked up anyways by a grip so firm he's certain it was going to break his jaw. Staring into its acid green pupils, a name takes over the whispers from before. It pulsates into his brain like an all-consuming migraine, so much so that he fears it'll be the only thing he'll hear or think ever again unless he speaks it. "An...ti…"

It cocks its head, insect-like, but says nothing.

"Anti..." He says again, this time with more strength. Although he's not sure why he bothered to utter it.

Again, no response.

Unnerved as it's gaze burns holes into him, Sean tries to squirm away but is locked in place. A wicked smile twists its expression then and it lets go, causing him to crack his head against the wall.

Laughing, the creature stands up. _"I̡d͝i͝o͝t. ̨We͞re you̢ alw̶a͠ys̢ ̨th͢is ͠s͜t̷u̴pid͏?"_

Sean rubs the back of his head and makes to stand as well, struggling in the process. When Anti doesn't approach him, doesn't make to hurt him, the fear evaporates some though he still steps back. Annoyance, though, sparks in its place. _Another_ insult. _Another_ implication that, whatever it was, that they knew each other without giving explanation. Wasn't he just an hallucination? So why was he saying these things? And why did it makes him want to scream in frustration and curl up in a hole just to get away all at once, regardless of how contradictory those two things were?

"I'm not an idiot and I'm not stupid," he retorts, despite his instincts screaming _danger danger danger_ at him for doing so. "What the hell is this even all about? What was the point of bringing me here? Did ye just want ta torture me? Is that the fuck it?" Giving himself a moment to breath, he pauses and tries to reign in his emotions. This was bad. This was _definitely_ bad. But he needed answers, they were imperative. Even so, he consciously softens his tone a little, his bravado wavering somewhat as Anti says nothing and just stares. "Are yeh even real? Because the only person who seems to be able to see or hear you is me. Otherwise I would think that Robin or any one of my friends would have said something."

The moment those words leave his mouth, he regrets it. Tripling in intensity, the pain he had been feeling up until that point flares white hot and leaves him seeing stars. He barely catches himself on the wall, but it hurts so much that he's not even sure if he's still upright. "A-Anti—"

 _"̢D̶o ̢not͞ c̵all҉ me ̨th̶at!"_

His bravado finally shatters when he's slammed against a wall, pressure bearing down on his windpipe. His fingernails claw at the hand around his throat, struggling to get free. But he can't get a grip, can't dig in. Somehow Anti's hands are both barely tangible and yet altogether all too real.

 _"W҉h͢at ͟r̕ig̶ht͏ ̷d̛o͡ ̧y͞ou ̕hav̨e͟ ͟to c͡al̵l͠ me ͝t҉h̶at̕ ̡af͜te͜r͞ ̢all҉ t̢he̡se ͏y҉ear͠ş? A͝f̢t̢er͢ ͢c̡o̴ns͟ta͟ntly f̢orc͏in̴g m̶e͟ ͟t̛ǫ go͟ ar͝o͞und̶ ̵an̕d͜ ͞a͟rou̶nd ͟i͢͞n̶ ̴̴ci҉҉͞r͡c͏̸l͏e̶s̵ ̵͠w͜it͞h̴ ̵y͢͞o͢u̷͘?̕͜"͡_

His lungs burn for oxygen while Anti's eyes burn in rage. It was all he could see. All he could feel.

 _"An̶d҉ you͜ were ͢e͡v͢en c͝oc̶k͜y ̡en͢ough t͜o ͝que͝s̷t̸i̸on͘ my̡ exist̢ence. ̧W͠e͠ll͞ g̢u̧̕͝es̢s ̢͘w̵h͠͞a̶͢t?͝͞"̨͟_ Pupils melting into black, Anti leans in closer. His presence chokes out all other senses, leaving Sean with nothing but the horrid and visceral awareness of his existence. _"I͢'m a̶s real a̵s it҉ ge͘t͟s an̷d͘ n̷o̢t ̶e̷ve̕n y͝o͟ur wo̸͠ŗt҉̷̢hl͟͜e̴şs f͏̵̵u͏ck͝i̧͜n̨͟g̡͏ ̷͟͢'͜͜҉f͏̵͡ri͏̕͢e̵͏n̴d͝s͠͏͟'͘ ̢c͟a̕n ̸h͠el̨p you now.̶"_

Sean's heart pounds against his ribs, blood thundering in his ears. He tries to push away his hands again with the palms of his own hands but slips. Black spots his vision. While his lungs grew heavier and heavier, his head only grew lighter.

Slowing down his struggling, strength flees his body. Darkness encroaches on the edges of his vision.

This was it. He was dead.

But then the pressure on his neck slackens. Anger fades into hesitance and another emotion that Jack can't place. The cold hands, disgusting around his neck, let go. He wrangles himself free then and lands with a thump, jarring his legs.

Then, he _bolts_.

He has to get away. It's all he can think about as he runs. If he doesn't Anti'll kill him. _(Except he let go. The only reason he was free right now was because **Anti let go.** [But did that matter?])_

It's all a blur. Something jams into his leg - it might be a side table. He hears a clatter as he trips and knocks over a lamp. Regardless of the stumble he continues to run anyways. The taste of copper coats his mouth while all he can smell is burning wires, electric in the air. His lungs burn so badly that he fears that Anti is somehow still choking him. All he can hear is static.

Jamming his hand into doorknob, he wrestles with it until he hears a click and flings it open. He continues to run, feet beating down on stone, away from the house. Away from Anti. Away from danger. But he still smells metal. Can't get away from the feeling that someone is still behind him. Can't get away.

Finally his legs give out when he hits pavement, scraping his hands as he tries to catch himself. Anti is watching him, he doesn't have to look to know. The air is thick with static, with his presence. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck._ He has to get up. Get up. Get up get up get up.

Light blinds him then. He hears Anti shout something but he's not sure what. All he can see is the light as it draws closer. A horn blares. Jack braces himself, hearing tires screech. But it doesn't matter. The light engulfs him anyways.

.

.

.

.

But there's no impact.

Jack blinks.

His hands sink into the ground, soft and plush. Warmth drapes his legs and slowly he realizes he's on the couch.

A...dream?

Sitting up, he looks around.

His laptop (off now) sits neatly on the table. Neither the lamps, nor any of his side tables, were disturbed. He thinks he smells something meaty (bacon maybe) and hears someone shuffling around in the kitchen (Robin?) but when he shifts to get a closer look he flinches. Even if nothing is disturbed, his body still aches as fiercely as it had in the dream.

His broken ribs? Or something else?

He can't breathe.

Once again, Jack bolts.

The sky is white and overcast, dreary weather fit for such a situation. The air is crisp and mildew-y. Cold numbs the soles of his feet as he jogs down the path leading from his front door.

"Sean?"

Although it makes him jump, Jack just speeds up and continues on towards the road.

When he steps off the path and reaches where he fell, he finds no blood and only faint skid marks. So a dream then...?

Somehow, the skid marks still make him uneasy.

 _"Yo҉u're go̧ing ̕t͟o̶ ͞b̧e̵ h̷it b͢y ͢a͘ ̧f̵uck̸ing̨ c̶ar aga͢in̨ if͘ ͘yoų don'҉t ̵m͡o͏ve̴."_

Anti's face flashes across his mind. Feels the ghost of hands around his neck, constricting his ability to breathe.

When he turns to fight him off he instead gets Robin, frowning and looking concerned and confused. He's saying something, asking him if he was okay and other various concerns that, quite frankly, Jack can't focus on at the moment. All he can focus on is Anti, who stood just behind Robin, off on the sidewalk, arms crossed and face devoid of expression.

Jack's body itches to flee again at the sight. Maybe if he just ran a few miles then-

"Sean, look at me!" Hands encase his biceps. Robin stares at him, seemingly desperate. "We need to move. What the hell are you even doing?"

"I was..."

When he looks back, Anti is no longer there.

"Sean?" He looks back again, at Robin. His blue eyes search his, as if trying to pry into his head, his thoughts. Jack shudders and steps back out of his friend's hold, unnerved. "Uh, hey, come on. We need to get out of the road man."

Concerned. He was just concerned. And yet, somehow, Jack can't believe it. Can't believe it at all.

"Um what is it...?"

Because he hadn't stopped Anti before, right? Because he hadn't even noticed when Anti had taken him away.

"Nothing," Jack finally answers, and pushes past Robin. He doesn't apologize when they bump shoulders. "Nothing at all."

* * *

 **Violence warnings** \- strangulation.

Also a disorienting scene shift.

 **Zalgo translations in order:**

"You really are pathetic. What happened to you?"

"Idiot. Were you always this stupid?"

"Do not call me that!"

"What right do you have to call me that after all these years? After constantly forcing me to go around and around in circles with you?"

"And you were even cocky enough to question my existence. Well guess what?"

"I'm as real as it gets and not even your worthless fucking 'friends' can help you now."

"You're going to be hit by a fucking car again if you don't move."


	7. Chapter 6: The Seeds of Doubt

Second chapter of the month! After this we'll be going back to one chapter a month, just wanted to make up for the missing chapter last month. As always zalgo translations at the bottom, along with some TWs.

* * *

He's not an artist, not by a long-shot, but somehow Jack gets by as he sketches in his journal. This time it's hands - hands that he can still feel around his neck sometimes, tight and constrictive - and a car, headlights blaring even on the thin sheet. Both sit along the margins with words sandwiched in between. Words detailing his dream(?), from beginning to end, though now he can only remember bits and pieces on his own.

Mostly of Anti, anger so fierce that it were electric, as he strangled him. (And hands, hands so cold that they felt like that of a corpse.) And then of the aftermath, of Anti's shift in demeanor as his gaze cooled and his grip slackened.

Jack shudders at the memory, at the phantom hold around his neck, and pulls his collar up with one hand as if it were the best defense in the world. It didn't matter if Anti let go. Not if he planned to torture him.

It didn't matter at all.

It's then that he feels someone's gaze on him but he doesn't have to look to know whose it was. Robin had been doing that a lot more in the past day or so; watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Jack hates it. It makes him squirm. Makes him want to disappear under the scrutiny as it opens up a chasm in his chest and messes with his ability to breathe.

So, he closes the journal firmly and slips it into his back pocket, slowly pushing himself up off the couch. "I'm going to go record," he announces. It was the only excuse he could come up with to get away. (Besides, he needed to anyways, right? It was his job, after all.)

"Now?" Robin's voice pitches slightly, incredulous. Jack's not sure if it's out of concern or something else. Was he annoyed because it was their last day? "Uhm, but your ribs?"

Jack shrugs, but smiles and says with his over-the-top accent, "Eh, I'll be fine laddie. Didn't ya know us Irishman are built to last? Jus' down a couple 'o beers and we're right as rain." He chuckles as Robin cracks a smile, though his eyebrows remain stubbornly furrowed. "I won't push myself too much," Jack says, dropping the accent for a more gentler tone. "I'm just out of pre-recorded shit so I need to do this."

At first, Robin says nothing. Jack's fingers twitch to grab his shirt collar, but he resists as he waits patiently for a reply.

"Fine," Robin finally says. "Go ahead then. I'll go and grab us some lunch while you're doing that. Taco Bell?"

"Oh hell yeah," he says. Guilt gnaws at him, but this was for the best. Maybe it really was just paranoia, but he couldn't stand Robin's watchful gaze any longer. "Don't worry, I won't be too long."

Robin raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond otherwise, hopping up off the couch as well. Jack watches as he swipes his phone off the table, along with his wallet, and leaves the room.

 _"So, ̀ýou're ́f͞ina͢lly se͘ei͞ng it҉.̶"̶_

Jack tenses, "...Seeing what?" A weapon. He needs a weapon. Or maybe he could make it to the door? (And then what? Where would he go?)

He feels as if someone is behind him, but there's no breathing down his neck this time. No breathing at all. _"T͏ha̧t ̡h̀e͢'̀s͏ ͘scúm w͞ho do͘es͜n't cąre͏ for yo͠u̢.͠ J͡u̵st like̴ ̶t͞ḩe ̶r̵est҉ ͢of̸ ̷t̕ḩe̴m.̀"͏_

 _And you do?_ He thinks, but doesn't dare voice it as he looks around the room. "He's...he's not scum, and he definitely cares." Maybe too much. (Or was it not enough?)

 _"Lie͡ş."_

"I'm not lying."

 _"҉Yo̧u ́a̧rę.̢ ͢B̀ut̨ i͏f ́yo̴ư wa̷n̶t̷ t̷ò l͞i͡v͟è ͡ìǹ de̴nial̴ th͟e͝n-̧-̶"_ His hand snakes down, around his shoulder and then up, getting closer _and closer to Jack's neck- "͘I͞'ll j́us̶t̴ ͝ha͡v̶e̵ ͟to r̛e̵m̴ind̷ ͝y͟o̷u ́ǫf w͡haţ hę'̀s ̧don̕e.̧"͢_

Jack leaps and swings the first lamp he gets ahold of. It crashes against the wall, going right through Anti. _"Shit."_

Before there's any reaction from him, Jack makes a break for it. Past the shattered remains of the lamp, down the hall, and then finally into his recording room. He fumbles with it, but eventually manages to lock the door behind him. Almost certain Anti will somehow manage to get in anyways, though, he backs away.

But, as he passes by the computer, it suddenly turns on, making a garbled sound as it does so. Glitching, the black screen is filled with red and green and static. He stops, now entranced as it fades a second later, leaving only a faint red and green outline. It was shaped like a man. A man who is staring straight at Jack.

His instincts scream it's Anti.

With nothing else in the room, he picks up a lamp again by its rim, anxiety spiking. It flickers on, bathing his body in red as he looks around. He sees no one else. When he looks back at the video, the man is tinged red as well.

He lifts the lamp up. And so does the man.

It hits him then.

 _Oh._

The lamp falls from his hand, shattering the light bulb and inviting shadows into the room.

He walks over to his desk but hears nothing, not even his own footfalls. Something crunches underfoot but he barely feels it.

That was him. The scared, bitter, tired-eyed man was Jack.

 _No._

Placing one hand on the monitor, he leans over. Staring at it, staring at _him_ makes him want to vomit.

He moves a hand. The man does the same. It's like the time in the hospital, or whenever someone talked about an event he didn't remember happening. There was a disconnect - like his brain couldn't reconcile the Jack in the video or the Jack during the holes in his memories as himself. Or, in this case, the reflection of himself, captured by his camera.

It scares him. It makes his stomach churn.

 _That's not me._

 _""͜Y̢ou͟'͘d really̢ ͝lov̨e̶ t͠o͡ t͢hi̷n̕k t̨hat̵, wou͜ldn̸'t you͝?͠ B͢ut ̸i̷t҉ ̨doesn't mat̛ter ̴wh̡at͞ ̀you w̧a̢n̶t̸."͏_ Fingers curl around his shoulders, reminiscent of Robin's own actions barely even a couple days ago, but different. Unlike before, it hurts, as if Anti were made of thousands of needles, pinpricks of pain against his body. _"T͞hat͜ ̧body͏ i͏s̕ st͢i͟ll yơur's̨."͘_

Jack shakes his head, tries to move but is glued to that spot by force. That's him? That's his body? "I-It's not. I'm not-"

 _"B̡i҉t͞ter̛? Scared?̨ O̸h no̧, ne̸v͠er, **Sea̵ny-b͘oy͠.** Y͡óu'̧r̕é j̡u͜s̀t ̧that͏ lou͞d ̛I͘r͢i̢sh ̴Yo͟u͟t̡u͞ber̡,̛ ҉aren'ţ cha͟? Knòw͝n͢ f́o̶r҉ hi̧s̸ po̴s̢i͘ti͘v͡i͘ty̡,͝ ͘h̴i̴s 'P̸M͜A̕'.͝"_ Anti spits the words out like they were bits of rotten food in his mouth. _"Y̛ou ̴co͝u͢ld̀ neve͞r̀ be ̧s̨o̵ ̛h́a̕tefu͏l,͏ s̕o n̛ega̛ti͘ve̡.̶ I̴t'̛s ͜ben̡ea҉th ̢y̡ou͜."̧_

He feels sick. "Of course not. I can't be positive all the time. I'm still human."

 _T͡he͘n ͢w͢h͘at'̀s ̧t͝h̕e͝ prob̛lem͞ here͝?"_ He feels Anti lean over, pressing against his back. _"̛I͘ş ͢your̀ ͜b̢rai̶n͜ b͢rok̛e͘n͡?̢ ̧O̕r̨ ̶m͡a҉ybe-͢-̶"_ Jack hears a snap and, against his instincts, looks over to see Anti staring at him with a smile and his head at such an angle that he was certain that he had just broken his neck- _"͘You j͟u͏s̵t͝ don't ̷w͡aņt̡ to͞ admi͟t̸ th́a͏t̡ y̢ou͝ ͢hate ͝o̕ne o̧f yo͟u̧r̡ cĺo͢s͠e̶s̛t̵ ͠'f̕rįénd͞s'?"_

Jack wrenches himself out of the hold, breathing so fast that he's not even sure if he's getting any oxygen, and grabs hold of the neckline of his shirt. "I don't hate him! Why the fuck would I hate him?"

 _"B͞e̸c͢aus͢e ̷h̴e̷ a̕bańd͝on͘ed͞ ̕y̢ou͏.̢ ͟B̶ec̸aưse͘ he͏ **̛l̴et͟** tháţ ha̕p҉p͟eņ to̕ ͏y͟ou.͝"̶_ Anti takes a step forward as Jack takes a step back. _"Dǫn'̛t̷ ýou ͘re̴m̡embe͡r҉?͏ ̶Or di͠d ͘y͟ǫu̶ ̸forgęt ͟lik̷e̴ ̀you ̶alw̕a͝ys ̛do?͡"̧_

"He didn't abandon me," he says, voice pitching and the words hollow. "And it's not like he's my caretaker or some shit. I'm a grown man."

 _"̡W̶ha͜t as̵to͘un͘d̡i͜ng͏ de͟n͞ìal.͟ Yo̴ú ca̡n ̸s̕a͘y ͘t̀h̶a͢t ąl̷l ͢yo̡u wa̡nt,͠ ̧b̶u̷t̵ ̶we bo̵th kno̡ẁ t̨h̛at̢ h͏e̸ ͝di͠d͟.̸"_ The other lamp flickers on, fizzling from a cool blue into a deep crimson as Anti draws closer. Static eats the computer screen and crackles in the speakers, filling the room with white noise. _"̕If ̸they had ̡care͡d, ̶th͜ęy͢ woul͘d̕ ̡h͝ave ͡c͠heck͏e͠d f҉o̵r͝ y̕ou͢. ̀Espe̷cially̢ ͘h̨im̴,͜ t̷he͞ ̶o̶nĺỳ o͡ne̢ ìn͞ ́th̵e r̛o͟o͏m͜ ̨w̵i͢t̷h͘ yo͡u̶.͠ ̧In̢ ͝f̸a̛çt̡ y͘ơu̸'v̀e k͝now͝n ͢t͠h̵i͞s ̡sinc̴e͏ th͜e ̨bèg̛inn͜i̵ng̷,̧ hav͘en̶'͞t y̢ou?"͏_

Markers clatter to the floor as Jack backs into the whiteboard. He can't argue, can't utter a sound. Can't find the holes in Anti's words. It's such a horrid feeling that he wants to vomit, like he were betraying Robin by staying silent. But the argument just isn't there. "I don't hate him. I don't," is all he can say.

Anti laughs, _"̴J͟u͢s̶t̷ ̀ad̵mi̶t̨ ̶t̷ha͝t́ ỳou ҉d͜o̷.͏ Yo͜u͏'ĺl͞ b͘e̸ ͡b͢ętt͘er̢ ̴o̡ff͡ f͝or iţ.̷"͞_

"No! Maybe I'm angry but that doesn't mean I hate him." Jack protests, slamming a hand against his chest. Despite the show of conviction, though, his body trembles, betraying the confidence he's trying to project. His words are further undermined as he holds onto the whiteboard for support, feeling as if his legs were going to give out at any second. "W-Why do you care if he cares for me or not anyways? You're the one who- who-" _Strangled me_ is what he wants to say, but instead the words lodge in his throat.

 _"N͏i̢c͡e d͜ef͞l͞e͜c̡t̢i̛on,͜ but ̷įt ̛w͞on͝'͞t̷ wor͢k. Un͞le͘s͘s ͝y͜ou͡ wa̕nt ̸me ҉t̡o k̵iļl you,͢ ͠the̵n ͠I'm happ͏y ͟t̕o ͜ob̡l͘i̵g͠e͜.̛"̀_

Jack shakes his head as Anti laughs again.

 _"͢F̵in̢e, fi͘ne."_ Pacing, Anti runs a hand through his hair. _"B̷ut r͘ea͜ll͢y̷ ͢you̢ ̧sho̵ul͘d͟ ̴b͜e̷ a͢f̷r҉a͘id ́of ̡thaţ ͠edit͘o҉r҉ ͞of ̛your͞s.̴ ̵He'͏s̢ ̸the ̀one ̡w̨ho di͢dn'̕t́ h̨el͡p̸ ͘wh́en ͜y҉o̷u҉ need͟ed͜ it m͟o͏st͝. And ͜yet̛ ̶he'͡s̡ ͢sti̢ll ̛he͠r͏e.͘ ͢Ẃh͝at͡ ̨fo͢r?"_

It takes a second for him to reply, unsure if the pacing is good or bad. (Really, it felt more like prowling.) "It... doesn't matter." Jack swallows, "All I have to know is that the only thing here that wants to harm me is you."

The pacing suddenly stops and Anti's head snaps towards him. Fuck.

 _"S͘o͟ ͏th̕at'̶s ̵w͠hat you͡ think͘?̨"͟_ Anti's eyes glint dangerously, glowing the same acidic green that colored his hair. _"T͘hę only ̕th̨i̷ņg͠ ̨I wa̷nt ͝is͠ ͢f̴or y͠o̸u̸ to giv̨e ̕m͘e ̢y͠o̸u̶r͏ ̡s̶ha̴re ͠o̵f the c͏o͟ntrơl.̨"̡_ Footfalls impossibly heavy sounding and yet leaving no trace at all, he stalks over.

Meanwhile, Jack reaches for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. But he's out of options, for what could he do against a being that wasn't entirely corporeal?

 _"And́ ̨if́ that ҉means ̀I ̧h̨a͘vę ͡to̢ s̷ho̶w̸ you ju͏st ̶ḩow da̵ngerou̢s̷ this̡ ͞w̴ór҉ld̸ ̷c͝an͢ be t̷ò ̨a͜c͘hiev͟e̛ ̧tha̶t̵,̷ t̷h̛an͝ so be it͠.̵"_

Shrinking back, Jack is blocked in. Pain pricks the underside of his chin and warmth oozes, fingernail (claw?) hooking under it.

 _"E͟ven ̶i͞f̶ ̶tha̴t͘ me͡ans̨ I ̴have ̶t̛o ͟ex̨p̷os҉e͞ ͜j̴u͞s҉t ͞ho̡w̨ vile̕ ͢y̕ơuŕ 'fr̀i̶e̸n͏ds̕'̀ ̕a͞re̕ ̛or o͏th͡er̀w̵is̵e ̸car̷v̧e ̕th͡at l͢e͡s͞s͜on i͢nto yo͢u̡ mys͞elf.̕"҉_ The pain drags down his neck, blood blooming along the trail. _"́It's all fine ́b̕y ͢m͏e͜.͏"͠_ It's then, right over Jack's throat, that Anti stops, hand hovering.

Barely breathing as to not let the claw dig further into his skin, Jack searches Anti's expression with confusion. His share of the control? What? "Anti, I-I don't under-"

Anti rolls his eyes and _yanks_ , tearing a curved line into Jack's neck. Blood drips from one claw, splatting onto the floor. _"̡Oh s̴h̸ut͡ úp. ̴I͞ ͟k͘no͜w y҉ou̧ ̕d͞o͞n̢'̵t͠.̢ But ́t̀ha̸t̢'s fín͞e. ̵T͟he o͏nly̶ th̀i̸n͢g ͘you ̕n͢eed҉ ̴to̴ ͠un̕de̕r̴st͢a̸n҉d̵ ̵i̴s ͠that ỳour͠ '͟friend͟s͡' a̴n͠d͏ this w̴o͟r҉ld͜ ͘aŕe̕ shit.̴"̧_ Anti smiles crookedly, teeth sharp. _"̕Th̕a̕t̀'̀s̛ ͡all̴.͢"͢_

Collapsing onto the ground, he brings a hand to his neck. Ragged under his touch, Jack can only imagine the damage that's been done. "W-Wha-" Jack sucks in a breath and winces. Tries to steady himself but can't. Was this his ribs or was his throat torn open? "What's the- the point in torturin' me like this? H-How-" His chest heaves. It feels like he can't _breathe_. "How does this- this accomplish anyt'ing?"

When Anti drops down to eye-level, Jack flinches. He stares at his neck, as if he could see right through Jack's hand. _"Oh͜ i͟t àc̸c҉o͡m̛p͢l͝i͏s̡h̡e̸s ͝mor͏e t͝hán͜ ̵y̴o̸u k̕ņo͡w̢. ̴J̸ust ́w͘ai͏t͟ un̷til͜ ̷the̷ f͡in͞al̨è."_

He freezes. The world plunges out from under him. If he could barely breathe before, he was now _suffocating_. Was Anti strangling him again? He feels hands but doesn't see them, knows Anti's there but can't hear him.

Finale. Finale. Finale.

It repeats over and over and over in his head like a broken record.

Somehow he hadn't considered it a possibility. Of course, up until that night, it hadn't felt very _real_ either. And before, sometimes, it still felt like a dream.

But that one word changes everything; shoots a dose of reality into the nightmare that had been his life for the past week.

There was going to be an end to this. And that end only meant one thing:

Sean (Jack?) would cease to exist.

* * *

TWs:

Mental and Emotional Manipulation (including Gaslighting)  
Cornering/Minor Injury

Zalgo text in order:

"So, you're finally seeing it."  
"That he's scum who doesn't care for you. Just like the rest of them."  
"Lies."  
"You are. But if you want to live in denial then-"  
"I'll just have to remind you of what he's done."

"You'd really love to think that, wouldn't you? But it doesn't matter what you want."  
"That body is still your's."  
"Bitter? Scared? Oh no, never, Seany-boy. You're just that loud Irish Youtuber, aren't cha? Known for his positivity, his 'PMA'."  
"You could never be so hateful, so negative. It's beneath you."

"Then what's the problem here?"  
"Is your brain broken? Or maybe-"  
"You just don't want to admit that you hate one of your closest 'friends'?"

"Because he abandoned you. Because he let that happen to you."  
"Don't you remember? Or did you forget like you always do?"  
"What astounding denial. You can say that all you want, but we both know that he did."  
"If they had cared, they would have checked for you. Especially him, the only one in the room with you. In fact you've known this since the beginning, haven't you?"

"Just admit that you do. You'll be better off for it."  
"Nice deflection, but it won't work. Unless you want me to kill you, then I'm happy to oblige."  
"Fine, fine."  
"But really you should be afraid of that editor of yours. He's the one who didn't help when you needed it most. And yet he's still here. What for?"

"So that's what you think?"  
"The only thing I want is for you to give me your share of the control."  
"And if that means I have to show you just how dangerous this world can be to achieve that, than so be it."  
"Even if that means I have to expose just how vile your 'friends' are or otherwise carve that lesson into you myself."  
"It's all fine by me."

"Oh shut up. I know you don't. But that's fine. The only thing you need to understand is that your 'friends' and this world are shit."  
"That's all."  
"Oh it accomplishes more than you know. Just wait until the finale."


	8. Chap 7: Falling Outs & Paranoid Thoughts

When Sean comes to himself, he's still sitting under the whiteboard. Something itches against the skin of his neck and, when he reaches for it, it's smooth under his fingertips.

Bandages. The same as the ones around his stitches.

He frowns, sitting up fully now, and looks around.

White noise still spills from the speakers and speckles the screens of his computer. Shards of glass from the broken bulb litter the floor by his feet and lamp, while the other sits nearly undisturbed by his hand. When he makes to stand, he jostles the markers by his legs.

It's weird, it's all so weird - coming to with bandages while everything else remains as it once was - and he doesn't know what to make of it.

He grabs at the bandaging again, running a thumb along the many ridges, considering them. It's brief, but a memory flashes in his mind's eye as he does so; remembers how Anti had torn open(?) his throat without so much as a thought. As if Jack didn't deserve even that.

Shuddering, he looks around once more but again sees no sign of Anti. Had Anti...left? And the bandaging…

Removing his hand from his neck, he walks over and cautiously creaks open the door to his recording room and peaks out. When he's certain no one is there, he steps out and heads to the door across from him and to his right - the bathroom.

The door is open when he approaches and the light on. Blood stains the sink basin and faucet handles and strips of bandaging hang down off the counter or limply in piles. Some of them are bloody, but others are clean and clipped short. Like the person (himself?) had a hard time gauging how much was needed.

Sean steps back, doesn't have the heart to look in the mirror right now, and retreats from the room. He should go back to inspect his wound and clean, but he can't. His feet don't listen to him and his chest is so tight it feels like it's about to burst.

This recent blank spot in his memory teases him, dangles implications just out of his reach.

It disturbs him.

With a new sense of urgency, he dashes down the hall towards his living area.

Once there he leans against an armchair that he doesn't remember disturbing, catching his breath, and surveys the area. He takes in any and all damage, looking for any sign of Anti's presence. All he sees is the broken lamp and misplaced furniture with no Anti to be found.

He should be relieved. He really, honestly, _should be relieved_. So why wasn't he?

A thought freezes him to the floor. Feels eyes on him but no one is there when he twists around to check. No, no. That's just stupid. Anti wasn't here. If Anti was here, he'd attack him, taunt him. He could never seem to resist.

And yet, unable to get it out of his mind, he checks anyways. The kitchen, the bathroom, the closet, the upstairs: he checks them _all_. There are no breaks, no stalling, even when he knows he should because of his still-healing ribs. No. He wasn't taking any chances. And with each checked (empty) room, his panic evaporates a little bit more. The lingering sense of Anti's presence fades and, when he checks the final guest room, it's like a weight is lifted off of him.

So Anti wasn't here then.

Somehow he doesn't know how to take that.

He touches his neck again, wariness and exhaustion overtaking him. Somehow none of this feels real.

The stairs creak as he walks down them, concentrates on the smoothness of the railing as he trails his hand against it. Clean, normal, the stairway corridor was separate from the rest of the chaos. As he steps down his little Roomba hits the side of his foot. Despite himself, Sean can't help but smile at it as he gets out of its way.

Walking slowly, he enters his room. He strips off his shirt (feels a little more at ease now that he's not wearing his own blood) and grabs a hoodie from one of his drawers. PMA. Ironic.

He slides it on and enters the hall again. It's not long at all, takes him only a couple of steps until he reaches the entrance to his deck, but he savors every second. For a moment he debates stepping outside, but decides against it. At least for now. Didn't want to chance anyone seeing him like this, when he was still clearly frazzled.

A few more steps later and he reaches the entryway. Placing one hand on the doorknob to his front door, he hesitates there. Seeing just a glimpse of the living room through the nearby archway is enough to give him pause, reminds him that the normality of the situation was all but an illusion. That the house that lay beyond was neither tidy nor separate from the space he was currently in.

God, he really should clean up.

But, even if it'll just serve as a constant reminder of what had happened, or otherwise cause Robin worry later, he can't make himself do it. Can't summon up the energy. It's just too much all at once. From the scattered glass and disorderly furniture to the blood in the sink _(his blood, splattered against the basin and on the floor of his recording room [where he'd definitely have to clean up or otherwise fans would see it and he couldn't let them see that, couldn't let them **know** -])_ it… It would all just be too much.

But he's not just content with standing there either, or flopping down into bed and letting the rest of the day (night? How long had it been since Robin had left?) pass by him all the while fearing Anti's return. Just sitting by, helpless? It just wasn't him. Either the paranoia would get him, or otherwise he'd go stir-crazy.

Other than cleaning, though, there wasn't much to do.

He tightens his grip on the doorknob while the other hand fiddles with the collar of his shirt, unsure on what to do. He really, truly, wants to be productive, but he just can't think about cleaning.

Running his thumb over the side of the doorknob, feeling out the shape of the lock, it's then that he gets an idea.

Swiftly he locks the front door - first the doorknob, then the secondary lock - and moves on to the sliding door back near the start of the stairway corridor, making sure to secure the windows along the way. Even if Anti could defy locks, at least he felt productive. At least he felt a little more safe.

* * *

The light dances on his face as Jack sits on the floor, back against the table, controller in his hands. He focuses on the screen, on Wander as he flies across the plains while riding Agro, and on where to go. It's intimately familiar, bringing back some of the only memories he has as a teenager, and altogether comforting. Safe.

 _But ̡ho̴w sa̡fe ca͞n y͞ou̶ really be̡?̷_

His grip tightens around the controller. His memories are safe, unlike the present. The living room - which was now only partially cleaned up with the glass cleared and the lamp returned to it's spot - and his recording room, still messy, still bloodied, were the opposite. The only peace of mind he had of them was that the windows were at least now locked.

Even still, though, slowly but surely, his house is being tainted with Anti's inherently dangerous presence.

For a brief moment he squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it. He's sick of the anxiety and paranoia, sick of Anti's constant invading presence and sick of the taunts and jeers and laughs. So, even if it's only for a few minutes, if it's only a semblance of safety and comfort, he tries to focus on the game, to be engulfed by it. Somehow, he's already fighting a Colossus even though he doesn't remember initiating it yet.

The way he fights is almost rhythmic: climb, stop, stab, stop, stab, stop, stab. Then repeat. He clings to it as he centers himself. Repetitive, familiar, unlike Anti, who shows himself when he wants, does what he wants. Forever unpredictable to him.

And then, just as he's about to kill Gaius, he hears something just outside his window; the rumble of an engine, and the thunk of a car door as it's closed.

Wander falls off. The controller tumbles from his hands and thuds against the carpet.

Jack stands.

 _I wo͝nder who tha̴t coųl͘ḑ be._

When he approaches the window, he sees Robin, waving goodbye to Felix while holding onto a bag of presumably fast food with one hand. Something curls in his stomach at the sight. He crumples the black drape in his fist and tries not to let the feeling linger but it's heavy and boiling.

Though he knew he had, he didn't remember when Robin had left, didn't remember as to why. He figures it must have been awhile ago, though, as he notices the darkened sky. It was lighter earlier, when Robin had still been there. _(Before Anti appeared? He hadn't been there during, after all. Would he have helped if he were? Would he have tried to do something?)_

 _Of c͢o̶urse not̸. He hadn't hel̵ped before, ha̛dn't eve͝n notice͢d._

Drape falling back into place, he let's go and walks over and through the opening into the entryway. The hood pulls taut as he covers up his neck. Heat escapes as he unlocks and opens the door.

It's oddly cold as he steps outside. His hand stays firmly on the doorknob, not wanting to stray too far out. He sees no one else, just Robin, in the darkening evening, Felix already having sped off. "Hey, was that Felix just now?"

Robin comes up short. Jack suppresses the urge to frown, noticing the hesitance. "Yeah, called him. He decided to help with grabbing dinner."

There's more to it than that, but at this point it doesn't really matter when he doesn't want to get into it. So Jack just hums a noise of acknowledgement and steps aside to let Robin through. "That was nice of him." He hopes it doesn't come off sounding bitter. "Let's eat out back. It's a nice night out." And if someone saw, well, all they'd see was two friends hanging out and eating together, right?

"Uhm," Robin eyes him strangely (or was he himself the one acting strange?) and steps inside. "Sure."

Jack leads him out back, being careful not to let Robin see into the living room. He'll have to let him see it eventually, but it was better this way for now. "Didn't realize you were going out. What did ya get?"

"Oh." Something's off with his tone, slight surprise peppering it. "Just some Taco Bell." Jack ignores it, knowing what that meant.

"Sweet. Gonna have to work out a shit-ton after this, but it's worth it."

"But you can't work out?"

"Eh, I'll find a way without hurting myself. Even if it's just some light reps."

They reach the deck in no time at all and elect to sit at the small table closer to the side of the house. Soft light illuminates the space around them as they get to eating, the light a warm, artificial yellow. Normally Jack thinks nothing of it, but tonight it feels wrong. Ignorant, even, of all the things he wants to say. Unfit for the scenario he was in.

A buzz of anxiety swarms his chest at the thought and he jiggles his leg in response.

"Hey," Robin starts, and Jack can't help but smile as it's through a mouth full of tacos.

"Mhm?"

Robin swallows. "Can I ask what's been up with you lately?"

And, suddenly, both the smile and his appetite is gone. "What do you mean?"

"Well. You've been acting really...odd. Kinda angry? Kinda not? Uhm." He pauses, just for a moment. "I don't know, sort of scared maybe? And the last time I tried to talk to you about this sort of thing you kinda, uh, shut me out and you're not usually...like that."

Jack lays down his wrap onto the table, doesn't at all look at Robin when he stands, and walks over to the railing. The wood is smooth under his touch and the light here is stronger. In a way, it's a spotlight and he's standing in it with no script, no game or activity to commentate off of. Just him.

He takes a deep breath, tries to shake off the feeling, and turns. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lies.

"You can't be serious. Are you lying to me right now or did you just forget?"

"Excuse me?"

"C'mon dude." Robin sets his food down as well. "You haven't been exactly subtle."

"I'm sorry," he says on instinct, feels the guilt swell in his gut and the anxiety in his chest and the anger in his hands. Because he is. He _is_ sorry, wishes to the very core that he hadn't treated Robin the way he has been. "I am. But I'd rather not talk about it." But he can't let it go either. It feels like a betrayal on his part, but it felt like that with Robin, too, when he and the rest of his friends hadn't even noticed that night. Hadn't noticed when it surely had been obvious that Jack had been in trouble. Certainly they could have seen his panicked expression, the way Anti was grabbing him from behind as they all sat there and continued on with their game. Surely they could have noticed. (But was it really that obvious? Had it even been entirely real?) And as much as he wants to, he can't let go of that anger. No matter how much he tries, it just wasn't possible.

"I know," Robin replies, and it's like he had known Jack would say this from the start. "But you have to know that we can't keep putting this off. And goddammit Sean, I'm really worried about you."

His gaze flickers to Robin's, just for a moment. Dead set and determined, Robin sits there with a frown and furrowed eyebrows. His taco lay abandoned against its wrap on the table. "And if I say it's none of your business?"

"You made it my business when you started treating me differently," he says, and then softens his tone. "Y'know I'm not usually the type to do this, but I'm kind of at the end of my rope here."

"Robin," he says, and it's a warning. "I told ya once and I'll tell ya again; I don't want to talk about this."

Robin stands. "I know, but at this point we have no choice. Look, if this is 'cause of a concussion then-"

"I don't have a concussion."

That stops Robin in his tracks. "Okay," he says, drawn out and uncertain. Like he didn't believe him. Or was surprised at the certainty otherwise. "Then what's got you so scared to talk about it? And what did I do to make you so angry at me? Because I can't think of anything."

Jack sighs, shaking hands gripping the railing behind him. He can't do this right now. He can't. Not after tonight, not after what had happened merely a few hours ago.

He pushes himself upright and passes Robin.

"Hey, wait a moment!"

Sliding door slamming open, Sean steps through. He hears footsteps behind him and the door closing, hears Robin as he tries to get him to stop, but he is not going to talk about this tonight. Maybe it was shitty of him, maybe it wasn't. But he just can't afford to right now. Not only is the prospect itself a little terrifying (who knew if Anti would interrupt because he heard?) but also it's hard enough to fight his mixed emotions as is. He wasn't going to open up a dam because Robin was too stubborn (caring) to let it go.

"Sean, please."

But then there's a hand on his shoulder, _too close to his neck_ , and he yanks away (the situation too familiar, how many times has he done this when Robin was just trying to get his attention?) breathing hard. "Don't!"

"Whoa, shit I'm sorry. I didn't think-"

"Don't. I know that you're just worried and annoyed and want to know what's going on, okay? I know. But I can't, Robin. The reason I don't want to talk to ye about this is because I- I don't even know if what happened is real. I don't even know if you could have prevented it. And I don't want to ruin our friendship because I'm being shitty over something that didn't actually happen. So please. Don't."

Robin frowns, "Okay hold on. One: What do you mean you're not sure if it's real? Two: You're not going to ruin our friendship because you told me what's eating you. It doesn't matter if it's real or not."

 _Suc͝h̡ ̛a ͞lia̷r͠._

Jack's sets his jaw and backs away. "I still don't want to do this."

"I don't want to either, but you've left me no choice."

"You're real fucking stubborn when you want to be, you know that?"

"And so are you, but only one of us can hold out here and I can keep this up the rest of the night if I have to."

They're staring at each other, stances set. It feels terrible, like these emotions were eating away at his insides until there was nothing left than a bloody, bloody pulp. This wasn't like him, this wasn't, and it's so obvious that it's painful. But he didn't know what else to do. Talking about it is like opening up a can of worms and he honestly, truly thinks that Robin didn't quite understand that.

Or, perhaps, he did and he just didn't care. He was just too caring when it came to his friends.

And, as they just stand there, quiet and determined, he can feel his own resolve break down. Little by little. Because he knows if their roles were reversed that he would be the same way.

And, really, he's just so tired of it. Just so tired of hiding all of it from one of his closest friends.

"I don't want to be angry at you," Jack admits. "But when I remember it's all I feel aside from-" He stops himself. "Just, m'head's messed up from it and it's really fucking stupid, but I can't stop it and I'm afraid he's manipulating me into it."

"Who is?" Robin asks, voice soft as the fire is extinguished from it.

"Some...man named Anti. He was here during Monopoly night. After I- I don't know if I really fell asleep, but when I woke up I was in my room. I was looking for you when I found him and he- he strangled me. And the only reason I'm alive right now is because he...let go."

Robin visibly pales. Seeing the guilt and confusion on his face is enough to make Jack feel sick.

"And you blame me for that...?"

"No... I don't know. I told ya, my head's all messed up. I guess I'm angry that all of ye didn't notice in time or didn't wake me up. Maybe could've prevented it if ye had." He sucks in a breath, tries to steady himself. "But that's really stupid. You couldn't have known."

"I wouldn't call it stupid," Robin says. "But are you sure it's real?"

"That's the thing, I'm not. But my head and my reflexes and all that shit acts like it was, even if I know logically it probably wasn't. He's been laying it on thick that it's all ye's fault too which isn't helping. And then there's-" He looks behind him, makes sure that he sees no one. "There was tonight. Anti was there again when you were gone. He... I'm not sure if I can call it 'attacked', but he got my neck again." He loosens the hood of his hoodie, pulling it down to reveal his bandages. "Woke up and my neck was like this. There was blood in- in the recording room too, and in the bathroom. _My_ blood. And I don't know any other explanation for this because you know me. Ye know I wouldn't..."

"Okay. Okay." Robin takes a deep breath, but he's still visibly tense. Jack feels incredibly bad for it, for being the cause. "We'll figure this out, alright?"

"How?" Jack twists the end of his hoodie in his hand. "You're leaving tomorrow, aren't ya? It'll be difficult over Discord and text."

"I can always stay," Robin suggests. "I don't mind."

"No."

Robin stops, blinks, clearly caught off guard. "No?"

"No. I can't- I can't keep you here any longer. That's not fair to you. This whole week hasn't been fair to you. And I'm not going to let you waste your money on a plane ticket you end up not usin'." He already felt bad enough about it. Besides, the anger was still there, and it would be awkward otherwise. "I'll... I'll be fine. Worse comes to worse this is real and the cops'll get involved. Otherwise it's not and I'll be goin' into therapy. Either way I don't want to keep ye here for this."

"Sean..."

"Again, I'll be fine." Hopefully. "Besides it'll... It'll be..."

He doesn't have to say it as understanding dawns in Robin's expression. "I get it."

"I'm sorry," is all Jack can offer, his guilt a knife twisting in his gut.

"No. No it's- it's fine. Are you sure?" 'Are we still friends?' is what passes between them.

"I'm sure." After a minute, "We should probably clean up and head to bed now. So you're not late for your flight." He smiles faintly at this, hopes he conveys a 'Yes.' to Robin's unspoken question.

Robin smiles back at that. "Yeah, probably."

The process is quiet and swift. They end up cleaning the living room and the deck area together but Jack doesn't dare near the recording room and the bathroom, leaving Robin to help with both. After he's done he shoots Jack worried glances but Jack doesn't acknowledge them. Just bids him goodnight.

Then, they both part ways to their respective rooms.

* * *

Somehow, Jack is able to sleep that night. But it's not restful as he dreams of arguments and blood and then Anti, standing over both as they bleed out from wounds in their necks.


	9. Chapter 8: Markiplier Makes

Mark doesn't know what to do with this.

"Do you want some help?"

Which is to say that today's filming is a disaster, as always.

"No, no. I got this! I got this." He brushes off Amy with no more than a flick of his paintbrush...which is glued to his paper.

Glitter falls haphazardly onto the already messy table.

Of course.

Off on their respective sides, Ethan snickers while Tyler complains about Mark's glitter intruding on his Macaroni art.

Who said Markiplier Makes was an easy series to film?

"Oh come on. There is no complaining on Markiplier Makes! Just doing."

They were supposed to be making Macaroni Art today; something simple to honor the childhood tradition that, really, most children never actually did. Supposed to, being the key phrase.

"If it helps any," Ethan intrudes, leaning over so that he can face Tyler. A piece of macaroni, somehow glued to his shirt, pops off as its squeezed between him and the table. It plinks onto the floor. "I think the glitter adds a certain...artistic quality. Improves it, if you will. Adds a little bit of shimmer."

"Oh." Tyler says, as if he didn't expect it. "I still could have done with a little less."

But, as always, there is no focus. Not only is it chaotic, it is also a rambly mess.

"Okay, enough talking!" He slams a hand down on the table. It spills macaroni everywhere, clattering against the floor. "More macaroni-ing."

"But Mr. Marky-sir." Ethan looks up at Mark, leaning against the table, puppy-dog eyes and all. "If I don't speak, how will I feed my family?"

"Ethan." Mark's somehow still straight-faced as he crosses his arms over his chest. Even when faced with Ethan's whole existence. "Don't ever do that again."

Silence. And then a chuckle, as if it has better plans, bubbles through Mark's serious facade. "Nope." He turns and walks away from the table in a circle, leaving his piece of art mistake on the table. "Nope nope nope. I can't."

From where he sits, Ethan laughs as well, burying his head into his haphazard macaroni-art.

For once, Tyler doesn't join in. Just returns to his art with a shake of his head. "Why are you both like this?"

Mark snaps his hands up. "Hey! This wasn't my fault! Blame Ethan!"

"What do you mean blame me? What the hell did I do?" Somehow, he acts indignant, as if he weren't the one to say those regrettable words himself. "It's _your_ series!"

"Oh don't act like I've had control of everything! That ended the moment we started making this!"

"I thought it ended the moment Ethan decided to drop a whole carton full of eggs in his egg catcher?" Tyler points out.

"Well, that too!"

"In my defense," Ethan starts, hand against his chest. "I had to do it. To avenge my reputation as an Egg-savior."

'Egg-savior'?" Tyler exclaims, "You laughed maniacally like some sort of demon!"

"Oh Tyler, my young apprentice. It's all in the drama."

A beeping interrupts them, along with Amy's voice. "Time!"

"What? _Really?_ " Mark exclaims. Quietly, as he talks to Amy, Tyler and Ethan go back to their art.

"I told you that you needed more time. We can always add another 10 minutes."

"No, no. That's not how we do things here on Markiplier Makes. Alright crew, pack it up."

Tyler pauses in his gluing of a piece of macaroni. "What are you, a Pirate Lord?"

"What? No? Why a pirate? Where'd that even come from?"

He shrugs, gluing down his last piece. "Watched Pirates of the Caribbean last night."

"First one?" Ethan sprinkles some glitter over his art.

"Nah the second. Seen the first one too many times."

"Hey, wait a second. Hold up!" Mark furiously waves his hands. "Stop! Time! Time!"

"Awww, but I'm not done making Sanik!"

"Wait, that's what you were making?" Mark places his hands on the table and leans over, staring at Ethan's picture. A monstrosity of a monstrosity. "That is horrifying."

"Hey, can I see?"

Ethan passes the piece of paper over to Tyler, who stares at it. "That is the scariest thing I have ever seen. Even scarier than your pie."

"Aww, even with the glitter?"

"Somehow I think the glitter makes it worse," Mark says.

Tyler cringes. "Ouch."

" _Wow_. Amy, is he always like this?"

Behind the camera, she shrugs her shoulders and nods. "Unfortunately."

Mark swings around, stares at his girlfriend with an exaggerated expression of betrayal. "Whoa wha- Hang on a second! I don't deserve this!"

"Well you shouldn't have insulted my artwork," Ethan replies.

"Amy?"

She smiles at him. "He has a point."

For just a minute, Mark stands there in silence with one hand on his hip and the other thrown out from his side. And then, with a flop of said hand back down against his leg, he mutters, "Betrayed by my own girlfriend. Alright." He presses his face into his hand, other still on his hip. "Since I've clearly lost control of this, let's all take a 5 minute break and then we can come back feeling nice and happy and not mutinous. Sound good?"

Ethan pops up, hand going to his forehead. "Aye aye captain!"

Tyler shrugs and stands as well. "Sounds good to me."

And with that, the group disperses for their break.

* * *

The light flickers on with the flip of a switch. Mark strolls into the room, laptop under one hand and a warm cup of tea in the other. He sets the tea down on the coffee table, careful not to spill it, and then his laptop. Easing down onto the couch, he flips up the cover and immediately heads for Tumblr.

What will he see today? That's always the question that crosses his mind when he enters into his tag. Maybe some Darkiplier art after today's video, or a thoughtful meta post or theory? It really was a toss up. There was this distinct possibility of it being overrun with memes too, after all.

His fanbase wasn't always that predictable to him.

But of course, all it takes is a glance. And, really, it _is_ only a glance, but that's all Mark needs before he's doing a double-take.

Instead of a meme, instead of a theory or fan art, its Sean. He stares at him from behind the screen, donning a Cloak hoodie and smiling.

A screenshot.

His fandom really did love throwing him for loops. Or maybe someone had mistagged? But, as he scrolls down, there's more.

Mark frowns now and starts scrolling faster. His screen is a blur of color, but all of it of the same screenshot, and only sometimes text.

Fed up and a little apprehensive (after all, the last time something similar had happened it was when Sean had been hit by that car), he stops scrolling and starts reading instead.

Now, he wasn't a stranger to gossip, let alone gossip about his friends (or even about himself) perpetuated by their dedicated fans or the (usually money-hungry) media. But this was different. "What the hell?"

 _'mark do you know whats up with sean? he hasnt answered and a lot of your fans are scared'_

Above the plea this time is not a screenshot, but a full gif.

It was from today's video, he assumes, and most likely from the same time that the screenshot had been. As popular as they were, gif sets and edits and fan arts usually revolved around only new and relevant videos. All that knowledge does is concern him more when he notices it; peeking out underneath said hoodie is a bandage, dark stains creeping against the white.

Okay. Maybe it was a prop? Though Sean didn't really have any characters that would maybe need that aside from his...hero character, right? Jackieboy was it? Maybe he was starting some sort of story with him. Maybe he finally made a villain for him to fight.

But it was bothering him, he couldn't pretend it wasn't, and it was hard to tell the intention through a gif.

So he scrolls down again. It doesn't take him long to find a clip.

It's so slight that Sean doesn't even acknowledge the camera or the audience as he tugs at his hood. He makes no comment and the action itself is swift. All it takes is 3 seconds of footage, if not even less so, to hide the bandage again.

Not at all in the style of his usual acting. Not that he knew of, anyways.

His hand shakes. The accident, then. That had happened during the accident, right? It only made sense. Of course it only made sense.

But as his friends and family know, when something concerns him, he can't just let it go. Sometimes it's comedic, like when something weird and unexpected happens in a game and he's stuck on loop about it for a good few minutes. When it comes to his friends, however, his worry is insistent and not very comedic at all. Stubborn, even. (And boy was he stubborn, even to a detrimental degree.) They eat away at him for hours on end regardless of whether or not he voices his thoughts to anyone, nagging him. And right now? He's caught in that loop.

Because why hadn't Sean told him or anyone else?

Okay, so maybe he was being a bit overly-concerned and maybe he was overthinking it. After all, no matter how many times he was in the hospital that doesn't mean he knows all the stages of wound care and the technicalities of different wounds. Maybe neck injuries took a longer time to heal? And Sean himself, no matter how friendly and open he was, could be a very private person when it came down to it.

...Of course that was bullshit though and he knew it. Maybe they did take longer to heal, what the fuck did he know? But, from everything he was told, the accident had been a month ago. And at least with his friends, Sean had been open about his injuries from the start.

Wounds don't bleed after a month of healing, even with stitching, and the sudden secrecy was really weird.

Not to mention he couldn't recall such an injury on Monopoly night. Which was saying a lot, considering he remembers almost all of it. _(Sean, inattentive with baggy eyes and pale skin, smiling and laughing and, quite frankly, losing badly as they played. He didn't seem to care about the actual game, nor did he care about his arm, wrapped from the shoulder down, or the way he'd flinch if he moved in just the wrong way. No, he just cared about their company. And now it's so different. His bandages, hidden from view, fiddling with the collar of his hoodie, and the way he didn't mention it, like they weren't there, like he wasn't hiding them at all.)_

And so, before he really even has a chance to think about what he's doing, he's dialing Sean's number. The only natural conclusion to his folly.

 _"Mmm'ello?"_

Oh. Fuck. He had been asleep. "Hey, it's me, Mark. I'm sorry to wake you. Didn't realize how late it was there."

 _"Mm'Mark? Why're ya callin' me? It's like 4 am or som'thin'."_ Something ruffles in the background, crackling in the speaker. Probably some blankets?

"Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright. How's the recovery going?" Mark stands and paces, but doesn't make to indicate that by keeping his voice soft, casual. Whatever was going on, no need to panic him so early in the morning when he wasn't really even awake yet.

 _"Really M'rk? We gotta do this now?"_

"I know, I know. You're probably real pissed at me right now. Just entertain me for a minute and you can head back to bed, alright? I just want to see how you're doing. I'm a little worried."

 _"God, y'sound like Robin."_ It's silent for all of half a second before Mark hears ruffling again, this time louder and almost...sharp? _"Hold on a second."_ Mark blinks. Sean's voice is suddenly clear, no longer muffled and groggy. As if he had never been asleep at all. _"Why're you worried?"_

Stopping in his pacing, Mark is caught unprepared at the sudden demeanor shift. "I-I saw that you're back to making videos again."

 _"Really? That's all?"_

"I- Well, this might sound a little crazy but I thought I saw your neck bleeding in today's video? I mean it's all over Tumblr." He doesn't know what it is that is making him so hesitant, but somehow it gives him a bad feeling. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. I was probably just seeing things. Go back to bed Sean."

It feels like a good 10 minutes before Sean even replies again. He counts the fibers on the floor, tries to stay patient and listen, in case he had gone back to sleep and didn't say anything.

In reality, it takes less than 3. _"I get it. Seriously, I'm fine you doofus. You're just overreacting."_

"O-Okay. Okay. I'll trust you on that. So there hasn't been any complications or...?"

 _"Nope, been feelin' great, actually. Like my good ol' Irish self."_

Mark chuckles. "So you're feeling like you can chug 20 beers and kick some dude's ass?"

 _"Hell yeah! What else did ya think I mean?"_

"Damn, okay, okay. I get it. I can't argue with that. Anyways I'll let you head back to bed, alright? Sorry again for uh waking you up like that."

 _"Dude I told ye it's fine."_

"I know, I know. Talk to you later Sean."

All it takes is a tap on the screen for the call to end but he's somehow left feeling dissatisfied. Sean had answered all his questions and he wasn't the type to lie, and yet it felt like he had been led on somehow.

With a frown Mark flicks his finger and starts scrolling down his contacts. When he reaches the person he wants to text, he taps on it and sends one simple message:

 **{Hey when you were with Sean a week ago, was his neck hurt at all?}**

The reply, despite expecting it not to be, was instantaneous.

 _{he hasn't told you?}_

His frown deepens and that bad feeling turns into a black hole in his gut at Robin's reply. So Sean was hiding it. Why?

 **{No.}**

 _{and you asked?}_

Of course he had. Wasn't that obvious?

 **{Yep.}**

His annoyance evaporates upon Robin's next reply, leaving a small feeling of guilt and a swell of gratitude in its place.

 _{call me tomorrow and I'll explain what I can.}_

Mark sends a quick reply back and slumps back onto his couch. Thank God.

Tomorrow felt like a million years away.

Glasses skewing, he runs his hands over his face. It wasn't the fact that Sean was injured that made him so anxious over it, really. Injuries happen all the time and Sean was an adult. He could take care of himself.

But the secrecy? It was the secrecy that was worrying. Why didn't he want them to know? Why didn't he tell his fans?

...Why didn't Robin edit out that clip?

Tomorrow. It all comes down to tomorrow. But that's fine. He'll get his answers. He'll get his answers and help in any way he can.


	10. 9:Research of the Mundane and the Occult

Sorry this chapter took so long! I had a heck of a time writing it. Warning for a panic attack near the end and I hope you enjoy! Also concrit is welcome but no flames!

* * *

Sean lingers outside of the library entryway, staring at the glass walls as he clutches the strap to his laptop case. Passerby bump shoulders as they try to walk around him, but he's just an obstacle in the way of their destination. A stationary point in a steady stream of people.

Suppressing a sigh, he pushes down the anxiety and walks through the doorway.

Light streams in from the windows and in-between pieces of the shades, but all he really notices is the shadows that it creates. It checkers the floor, swallowing his feet, reminding him of the nights where his insomnia rears it's head and his only company is the shadows that dance along the walls of the house. Except now they're here and marred by the footsteps of the crowd. Uncaring of the shadows' greedy nature.

The rhythm of his walk is broken with a stagger as he's bumped in the shoulder from behind. It's a miracle he doesn't flinch, and it takes moderate self-control not to call the person out. It wasn't worth it.

Seriously, screw Anti for infecting him with this parasitic anxiety. He used to love being out and about in the crowds, mingling around in society. Going to the gym, taking jogs (well, sometimes at least, when he's not too busy), going to local events. But this parasite was threatening to destroy that. That essential part of himself. And, as the brown of the tile transitions into the green of the carpet, he can't help scowl at the abrupt change. Not of the flooring, but in himself.

He never used to fear change - in fact, he welcomes it. To never change is to never improve oneself. But this? This was different. It was sudden and violent and wholly unnatural to himself, brought upon him by a being who is equally as violent. Equally as unnatural. And that thought, and the thoughts of Anti, burn his mind while he tries to keep focussed on the task at hand. He takes in the smell of old books - of aging parchment and lavender and something else, something distinct and _homely_ \- to keep himself grounded and on that task.

But even as he takes a right, and the hall opens up into a large room crowded with bookshelves, tables and chairs, the familiarity of the smell sparks a pang of loss and irritation. It was so homely, like he was once again in front of that fireplace. Comforting, even.

The exact opposite of his house now. His house, so tainted it was both parts familial and dangerous. God, seriously. _Fuck Anti_ for ruining that for him too.

Scowling, he sweeps his gaze over the room and finds the computer catalogues nestled around a thick support pole. Wedged between two others, Sean is at least grateful no one else is there. At least his horrid luck recently didn't seem to permeate everything he does.

When he reaches the computer, he at first only types in the term _-psychology-_ , but it brings up nothing helpful. Or was it more accurate to say it brought up too many results that could be helpful, but he wasn't sure of? So he refines it. _-Mental illness-._ Still a bit broad, but he writes down one of the DDC numbers on one of the provided cards, just to get a starting point. But even for a starting point, leaving it there felt wrong. Like it wasn't enough.

Then again, he had come here with only a vague idea of what to search anyhow.

But even still...

The clacking of the keyboard is soft, unsure. Not at all steady and rhythmic like usual. His finger then hovers over the enter key and he stares at the term he just typed, all the while biting his lower lip. _-Schizophrenia-._ Part of him doubts that that could even be a possibility, let alone it. But the idea tugs at the back of his mind and the other part of himself just can't ignore it.

Finally, after a minute of debating, he bites the bullet. Some of the resulting books are biographies, while others are textbooks. He takes down numbers from both. Then he deletes the search and leaves for his destination.

* * *

What he wants ends up residing upstairs, where he's careful not to look over the glass railings. Books on psychology and mental illness stare down at him from their places on the shelves. A fair few of them are thick and imposing, while others are thin and unassuming. He picks a few of both along with some in-betweens, enough so that they're stacked in his arms and he feels like he's back in college again.

But unease slithers over him when he gives the books another one over, not wanting to miss anything.

Sometimes, organization in a library was a funny thing. Biographies on billionaires ended up next to textbooks on aliens or conspiracy theories. Or texts on crime landing squarely next to books on how to garden. Oh yes, sometimes it was quite the funny thing.

Other times, though, it ended up quite unfortunate. And, as his luck (or lack thereof) would have it, in this particular library, books on the psychology of the mind are housed right next to the books on the occult and the supernatural.

And that's exactly what Sean saw. Freezing in place, he stares at them in apprehension. This was stupid, really. The supernatural didn't exist. It was bullshit. Filled with hoaxes and paranoia and events easily explainable by science and common sense. There were no ghosts, no spirits, and most certainly no demons.

And yet, somehow, he's unable to look away despite that. His arms ache as the books grow impossibly heavy, but he can't set them down. Whispers brush against his ears. He doesn't flinch, doesn't react, despite their familiarity. Despite how alike they were to the whispers from his dreams(?). Despite how much they chill him to the core.

 _'Your fault.'_

 _'Be damned.'_

Taking a step forwards, Sean doesn't even shudder.

 _'Just one look.'_

 _'Too scared?'_

 _'Take a peek.'_

Something heavy, electric, lays on his shoulder. Eats away at him. But he can't shrug it off.

It steers him forwards, closer and closer to the books that his instincts scream at him to avoid. To run from, never to peer into their contents — contents that were somehow forbidden to him.

 _'Coward.'_

 _'Gaze upon your mistakes and be cursed.'_

 _'It's what you deserve.'_

A green book captivates his gaze. To take it feels like a taboo, but one he's compelled to break anyways. When he takes it in his hands, he can feel the binding flake off in his touch. He turns it over, mindful of it's fragility, and finds the title embedded with silver. _Anatamaíocht an Oirthir. The Anatomy of the Occult._

"The hell...?"

He shouldn't be holding this.

One, five, seven. Suddenly, he's very aware of how many people are in the area surrounding him - milling among the bookshelves. The whispers fall away. Instead he hears the thumping of footsteps, the brushing of the books as they're removed and returned. Their breathing drowns out all noise and their claustrophobic presence blocks him in. Knows they're watching him, eyes boring bloody holes into his back, his skin.

He was never the type to be paranoid as, quite frankly, most people didn't give a shit about strangers. But perhaps Anti really is starting to get to him. Because now he can't ignore the sudden, wretched awareness that he is being watched.

Sean tightens his grip on the book, knuckles turning white. He doesn't dare turn to look at who's watching him. It was probably Anti, as cruel as he is, finding amusement in his probing in the dark for answers. Or maybe it was a curious on-looker finding interest in a strangely acting man. Or perhaps even a fan, too intimidated to meet him proper?

Did it matter? He needed to get out.

Not looking proves disastrous, though, when he pivots and steps and his world _tips_.

Shoulder jarring against the carpet floor, the fibers burn against his neck and cheek. Pain smarts his shins and jabs his knee but at least it's not as bad as the carpet burn. "Ow...fuck." What the hell did he trip on?

With both hands and a flinch, he pushes himself up into a sitting position. His books from earlier are scattered around him and of _course_ he had tripped on them. Probably had dropped them earlier, when the voices had enveloped him and he was drawn into what? A trance? And the one he had just been clutching - that strange green tome that had beckoned him - lay just by the railing, not even a foot away.

It's enough of a distance to dull the paranoia that had plagued him and it's only a second later when he finds himself cracking into a smile. His shoulders shake from barely contained laughter. _Idiot_.

God, this was definitely something he couldn't tell Mark next time he calls. Knowing him, he'll never let him live it down, maybe even poke fun at him for it. Then again, considering why Mark has been calling him so frequently lately, if he says nothing and Mark finds out he'll never hear the end of it.

It really felt like he had a second mom sometimes.

As quickly as it came, his good mood evaporates at that thought. Or perhaps it hadn't been there at all - a desperate, hysteric grasp at normality. Whatever the reason, the smile is wiped away with a frown and his hands ball into fists against his thighs. They shake, and he pushes down, down, as if they were the thoughts he wished to bury and the anger he wanted to douse.

Fucking hell, he really should be over this by now. But it was like what he told Robin before. As much as he hates being angry at them, especially over something he's not even fully sure had actually happened, his head really was messed up over it.

Why was Mark so concerned now, but not then? Vaguely he remembers him mentioning the cut on his neck, but was it really due to that? When surely that night nearly a half a month ago was more alarming than a stupid little cut?

That night… could he have even seen, with Sean's camera positioned the way it had been, Anti sneaking up from behind? If he could see, could he have known what was to come?

Had Anti even been visible then?

Was Anti even real?

His thighs are no longer enough. Raising his hands, Sean pushes his palms against his forehead, frown deepening into a grimace and his eyes screwing shut. A headache blossoms just behind his skull and his chest aches from the tangled emotions.

God, he needs to stop thinking about this right now. It hurt too much and was too confusing and for _fuck's sake_ this was not the time nor place. He was in a _public library_ with people surrounding him. He needs to stop this masochistic train of thought before it got out of hand.

"Get it together Sean," he chastises himself from under his breath. Jeezes he was a mess. "Get it together."

"Hey, are you okay? You need some help?"

Sean blinks and lowers his arms. The feminine voice breaks through his thoughts but even if dulled the paranoia it sparks makes him want to run. This wasn't Anti but that was almost worse. She could be a fan. And as much as he loves meeting fans, it would be very bad if one saw him right now. Who knows what that could bring? Especially when he was most definitely not okay.

"Thanks, but I'm fine. Just tripped."

She's probably a college student, or that's what he assumes when he sees a bag slung over her shoulder. _What does that have to do with anything? She still might be a fan._

"Are you sure? I mean it's not really a problem." Her expression is contorted in concern, blue eyes staring down at him through black bangs. "Not like I haven't done that before. I'm lucky a textbook hasn't hit someone yet. Like seriously, I tell ya-" She walks over to one of the books and bends down to pick it up, Sean watching her every move- "These things glide like they're made of ice."

He smiles a bit, but it's more polite than anything, and shakes his head. "Thank you, but really I'm okay." When she holds out the book, he takes it with hesitance. "Wouldn't want to hold you up."

"Alright. But make sure not to trip again or I'll have to come back and bug ya."

She leaves after that, but for several long seconds Sean can't help but watch where she once was. He still doesn't know if she was a fan. But maybe the lack of pictures will discredit whatever claims she might make if she is. Or otherwise that she's a good person and knows when to let things lie.

Of course it was all paranoid conjecture anyways. He knew nothing about her, and from her point of view he just tripped. It will be okay.

 _It will be okay_.

* * *

It doesn't feel okay when he leaves not even 10 minutes later, books stacked in his arms with that tome securely tucked away on the bottom. He really should have brought a bag, but it was hard to keep organized _before_ , let alone now.

At least the walk home wasn't too long. (It was, but after everything he didn't want to call an Uber. Didn't want to trigger the paranoia that made him feel so unlike himself that it was frightening.)

By the time he makes it back, he's patchy and red and so hot he feels like he's burning from the inside out. He dumps the books and laptop case on the kitchen counter and proceeds to gulp down an extraordinary amount of water. Collapsing onto a stool, he pries off his sweatshirt.

He was _never_ doing that again.

Then again, if he didn't figure out what the hell was happening soon, he wouldn't even get the chance _to_ do that again.

Eyeing the books now, he notices the green of the occult one peeking out from under the rest. He frowns and slides it closer to himself but when he opens it all he sees is strange symbols on one page and then the word 'demon' on the next. His frown deepens and he skims some more but, while it made his skin crawl just looking at it, he can't help but feel like he was wasting time trying to decrypt nonsense.

Frustrated, Sean closes the book and turns his gaze back onto the others before grabbing the nearest one.

It's a mess of words he can't even begin to comprehend right now, when all he wanted to do was sleep. Exhaustion seeps into his bones and it wasn't just from the walk, but from the emotional toll as well. At least he-

Shit, did he upload today?

With a groan (because of course he forgot), he flips to another page. He tries to read it through bleary eyesight but at this point he was so tired that even if he could read it, it wouldn't be worth a damn. He didn't have the mental capacity right now to figure this shit out. Not only did he have to go through dozens of symptoms for various mental illnesses, but then he had to ask himself if they actually applied. Which meant introspection. And that was a whole process in of itself.

So yeah, no. The book shuts with a dull thud while he stands up, lightly bumping against the stool. This wasn't happening right now. He needs to save whatever energy he has left for his journaling anyways.

Shutting off the lights, he makes his way to his room and locks himself in. Maybe, if he's lucky, his insomnia will be good and he can get some sleep tonight.

* * *

Hall flickering a dull red, Sean creeps along as he barely dares to breathe. It's familiar, so familiar. How many times has he looped through this scenario? How many times could he do nothing but walk, marching towards whatever fate will befall him when he reaches the end of the hall?

Instinctively, he reaches up to wipe his nose but there's no blood this time. No red dripping onto the floor. Instead, a dull ache permeates his skull, pulsating behind his eyes. Against his temples. Somehow, he knows it's odd - that it should be a nosebleed and not a headache. But there's nothing to be done, and the fact remains that all he can do is walk.

Creaking open, a door just a few feet away invites him to inch closer, to enter whatever room lies beyond its depths. Sean pauses and lingers then but it beckons him. A siren's call. He knows he shouldn't enter, he knows; the darkness is too thick, too palpable. As if it would swallow him whole.

But the hall itself is familiar and yet foreign - such an irrevocable familiarity, and yet it's so subtly off that the thought of lingering there is less appealing. More anxiety inducing. Maybe the path to Hell lay beyond that door, but at least there were no eyes there, peering down at him, watching him from within the walls. Whispering to him from behind paintings he never once owned.

 _'Stay,'_ they say, the word a tendril snaking into his head. _'Stay and suffer. It's what you deserve.'_

He doesn't.

And what greets him beyond that door is not a path to Hell, but a man. Watching him.

Sean freezes, blue eyes staring into his from under messy green hair. Like the hall, he, too, is familiar and yet not. Like a long forgotten friend. Or a stranger; one he's crossed paths with more times than he can count.

 _Gr...een hair?_

He steps forward, one foot after the other. Hesitant.

 _Green hair?_

Familiar. Familiar familiar familiar. Why did he look so familiar?

 _Why did that feel so wrong?_

"Hello?"

 _As if that hair wasn't supposed to be green at all?_

The man(?) opens his mouth to speak, but Sean hears nothing. It's merely an imitation.

 _As if-_

Tap. He takes another step.

 _-it really was-_

"Hello? Who's there?"

 _-meant to be-_

No answer. They're so close now that if he just reaches out with one hand, like so, their palms will pretty much-

 _-brown._

touch.

 _Oh._

Instead of warm flesh, his hand presses against the cool, smooth surface of a mirror. His reflection's palm lay just under his.

 _But no. No, it can't be a reflection. That hair is-_

It grabs his wrist, smiling that horrid, toothy grin that Sean knew all too well.

Grabs and _yanks_ , pulling him straight through before he even has a moment to realize what is happening.

Shards of reflective glass spray around him. He, Anti, speaks but Sean can't hear. He's drowning; drowning in a fracturing world while they plummet endlessly into the abyss. There's no mirror, no hall, no sound. Nothing. Nothing. Whatever left of reality is crumbling and he can do nothing but wait for an impact that may never come.

A distant wail reaches his ears then, filling the space and engulfing them. Sean's eyes widen and he looks to Anti for answers but all the doppelgänger does is smile.

Smile and melt away into static.

Sean curses, tries to untangle himself from it but the static is a restraint, biting into every millimeter of exposed skin. Crackling under his skin, _burning_ him from the inside out.

He screams, eyes squeezing shut. Fingernails rake against his skin and tries to peel it all off but he can't. He can't he can't he can't he can't. He'll die like this, with that static under his skin.

But, then, something funny happens. Not the type of funny where you smack your hand against a whiteboard and yell. Or the kind that passes between friends and sends you and them into a fit of giggles.

No, it's an odd sort of funny where the pain ebbs away somewhat and the feeling of electricity fades completely. And though the burning pain is left, it's _manageable_.

The sort of funny where you find yourself no longer falling and are, in fact, lying curled up against the hard ground.

What?

He opens his eyes and makes to sit up but sways. The world itself is a blurry mess of light and dark figures and the smell and taste of metal.

"Fuck." Was that him? "Fuck fuck fuck fuck! You're such an idiot Jackaboy." Why was he…? "Always fuckin' takin' this shit for granted." He doubles over with a growl (not a groan?) and his eyes screwed themselves shut. "Screw this fucking useless body and screw you for mishandling it. Always fucking fixin' everything."

His body pushes itself up, but sways again when he's fully on his feet. His chest heaves from the effort but there's something wrong about it. Like he _can't get enough air._

The thought only makes it worse and his breathing shudders from it, chest heavy. It sputters out into a coughing fit and it _(his body, not him)_ brings his arm up to cover. When it pulls back as the coughing dies down, Sean(?) notices red as it stains the crook of his elbow. "Shit," his body(?) growls out, but all that does is send him into another painful coughing fit.

How is he- No, how is this body still standing?

There's no time to ponder as something grabs his arm.

Him and his body jump away in tandem, breaking away from that hold. But the world tips and they find themselves on the ground again.

Muffled shuffling and, when it looks up, the figure of a person looms over them. They must be speaking, as he(?) can hear a low mumble, but is unable to make out the words. "What?"

Another hand grabs him, and then another. And another. More and more and more and more until he's left thrashing and struggling, trying to break away from their grips. _Get off. Get off getoffgetoffgetoffgetoff. How dare they? How dare they touch him? How dare they handle him like this?_

But they don't, no matter his struggling. Instead they drag him into a vehicle he can't see clearly and strap him into a bed of sorts. It leaves him exhausted and gasping and the world flickers in response.

Someone is speaking again but it doesn't matter. All it is is nonsense words.

The world flickers again, darkness encroaching in on him. And he lets it, too exhausted to fight any longer.

* * *

Sean wakes with a gasp but nothing more. There's no screaming, no thrashing. Just a gasp, and a couple blinks of his eyes as he registers what had happened.

A nightmare. At least that he is certain of this time. There was no pavement, just his bed. No pain either - though the slight heaviness in his chest causes a frown and his hand to itch for the inhaler that still lay within one of his drawers.

It was just him and his room. It was just a nightmare.

At least, that's what he repeats to himself silently for a few minutes. But the situation reminds him too much of before. Of when he broke free of Anti and was hit by that car. It nags at him, asking _'How much is a nightmare and how much of it is a memory?'_ but he can't place an answer.

Because surely he's never fallen into some sort of mirror dimension, but those thoughts at the end? They weren't him.

He groans, running his hands over his tired eyes, and rolls over. What time is it again?

 _2 AM_ , his phone reads. Fuck, it was _way_ too early for this.

So he flops the phone back down and flips over, burying his head into his pillow. He didn't want to think about this right now. His cognition just wasn't there yet.

Maybe, if he's lucky, he can get some more sleep.

Except, as he lays there with his eyes shut tight, a thought hits him. If the latter half wasn't a dream, and those thoughts weren't like him, weren't _his_ , then what did that mean? Weren't him...weren't him…

 _The call with Mark._

Sean shoots up, wide awake.

The call with Mark was…

 _World blurred and gone, dark and suffocating, Jack floated there tethered to nothingness. His brain fuzzy with cotton._

Nausea crawls up his throat.

 _He felt his mouth move and through the fuzziness he heard his body speak, but it was disconnected from himself. Disconnected from what he wanted to say and what was actually said._

"It-It's fine," he says, voice cracking. He raises a hand. It trembles against his neck.

 _Their voices were so faint, muffled, he could barely understand them at all. He wanted to scream, do something to warn Mark that whatever was speaking wasn't him. But he couldn't._

"I-It's fine. It's fine," he repeats to himself. A mantra. Slowly he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. _His chest is on fire, like his ribs were broken again._ His limbs are numb. _Is it happening again?_ He rubs at his neck, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "It's n-nothin'. It's nothin'." There was an explanation for this.

 _He felt them - felt someone using his body like it were a meat suit. Could feel the second pair of lungs, breathing against his own._

Frantically looking around, his gaze lands upon his journal on top of his bedside table. He swipes it. When he flips through them, the pages are blurry from his trembling.

 _Jack clutched at his chest, clawed away at it like he could tear out the being controlling him, his expression contorted. Meanwhile, Anti twists Jack's lips into a smile. As Jack fought to gain control, Anti paid him no mind._

No. No no no no.

 _The call ended with a beep. Jack panted and exhaustion beckoned him. Anti's voice echoed in the space surrounding him, mocking and cruel. "That's it, isn't it easier if you just don't fight it?" His laugh crawled into Jack's head. The space encroached around him, darkening. "Just go to sleep, Sean. Just go to sleep."_

It slips from his lap, but at this point it doesn't matter now. The journal entry is seared into his mind.

"It'sfineit'sfineit'sfineit'sfineit'sfine-"

It's not. His breathing hitches. His neck burns. His fingers curl under the bandages just as the rest of his body follows suit. His free hand clutches at his hair.

Strangled. He's being strangled again, can feel Anti's hands around his neck. Maybe to finish what was started. Maybe to incapacitate him as to wear Sean's body as his own. Did it really matter now? He'll die. He'll either die, or he was too powerless to stop him.

On the floor, while he struggles for breath between choked sobs, the entry mocks him. A parting gift.

/Your 'friend' called this morning Jackaboy.

Mark? He's too nosy for his own good.

So I took care of it./


	11. Chapter 10: Dissociation

Sorry for the AN, but this is pretty important: I'm participating in Nanowrimo, so I won't be able to post during November. I also might not be able to post during December. But the good news is that I'm actually joining Nano to finish pre-writing the final rough draft of Insomniac! So hopefully after that and I polish everything I've written, I'll be bumping up the chapter count from one update per month to twice a month! Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Jack doesn't check up on Mark right away.

Even as the phone lay heavily in his hands, he just can't bring himself to call. It was horrid — Mark was a close friend of his, so he really shouldn't be hesitating like this. But even just holding it and staring down made his hands shake and his breath quicken and he was afraid he was going to fall into another panic attack.

No, he didn't want to go through that again. Whether it really was just a panic attack, or just Anti messing with him, or even a mixture of both. He can't, not when it just had faded.

God, Anti really did know just the right way to mess with him, didn't he? Just loved teasing him, making him panic over just one more thing that wasn't real. He knew all the right things to say, knew how to make him paranoid over every little detail.

That was it, wasn't it? All this panic? It could be over nothing, if recent events told him anything. Most of it was smoke and mirrors — nightmares he could wake up from, shaken but okay. Illusions that held no weight. In all likelihood, everything was fine.

It still didn't stop him from staring down at that phone and thinking of all the possible outcomes, though. Worrying that Mark was either injured or…

Jack tosses the phone onto the bed.

No.

He swings his legs over the edge and slowly stands. The journal, laying abandoned on the floor, catches his gaze but he doesn't linger on the content. Instead, he picks it up and sets it down on the nightstand, keeping the cover firmly closed.

This was his limit. Between the events of yesterday, his fitful few hours sleep, and the panic attack, he was left utterly exhausted. It and the stress were pulling him down and he was afraid he was going to drown without something to keep him afloat. Even if that something was a measly cup of coffee.

So, grabbing and slipping the phone into his pocket, he leaves his room and heads for the kitchen.

* * *

Leaning against the counter, Jack wraps his hands around a steaming mug of Irish Coffee. The tendrils of steam rise and curl around him as he drinks deeply, savoring the bitter taste helped only by Bailey's and the whipped cream. It burns a little as it goes down, having added more whiskey than normal, but he can't say he hates it.

It sits oddly in his stomach.

Maybe it wasn't proper to drink alcohol at 5 AM, even if it were just an Irish Coffee, but he just needed… _something_. Anything with a kick to keep him awake and soothe his frazzled nerves. And this was just the thing.

It wasn't like he was initially planning on adding the liquor anyways. It just sort of happened, with the liquid gleaming at him from its neat place on its rack. And who is he to say no right now, when everything was going to hell regardless of his choice?

If only it was enough for him to get drunk. Then he could forget about this shit at least for a few hours.

But… no. He needed to be aware for this. Even if that awareness was uneasily swirling in the pit of his stomach, tainted with guilt.

He really had fucked up, hadn't he? He should have told Robin to cut that bit out. Why hadn't he told him to cut it out? The fans didn't need to know he was injured and Mark, well, Jack should have known he would contact him out of concern. Mark was too kind and caring not to try and help when someone was suffering. Especially if it was one of his loved ones.

And now, because of him, Mark was…

 _Yǫur ͞faul̢t._

The mug slams down with a harsh _thunk_. He clutches the countertop with one hand while the other ghosts over his stomach. "Don't," he says to himself, trying to will his climbing nausea away. "Don't go down that route. It's fine."

But it's not, and he knew it the moment he remembered that phone call, didn't he? The journal entry was just the physical proof of his mistakes. The hammer that really hit him with the magnitude of the situation.

And really, how could it not be his fault? When Mark had only started checking up on him because of the worry that Jack had caused. If he had hid any of this better, he wouldn't have stuck his nose into it.

If it weren't for Jack, he'd be fine.

He launches for the sink in front of him and barely makes it. The coffee and liquor burns his throat and clogs his nose as his stomach heaves. It spills into the metal sink below and his eyes prickle with tears from the exertion. Once done, his remaining energy flees from him, leaving him slumped over and trembling.

But even after vomiting, his chest and stomach is left swarming with white noise. His fingers curl against the countertop — one hand and then the other — and whiten his knuckles. "Fuck."

He yanks on the tap, watching while the water swirls the vomit down the drain. His skin crawls as he does so. Finally, when there's no trace left of it, he shuts off the water and makes his way to the bathroom, feeling unclean.

The shower hisses on with a turn of the squeaky handles. Jack strips down, tossing his clothes into the hamper, and sets the phone onto the basin. He starts removing the bandages around his neck and catches the sight of red out of the corner of his eye. It dribbles down his neck, staining his skin. Red like from the car accident, the nosebleeds, the dreams: Robin stabbed, Jack bleeding out. Red hallways, mirrors and taunts and _his fault, retribution, deserved._

Anti.

Stepping in, he's suddenly on autopilot. Barely there and floating. He doesn't feel the water as it sprays over him. Sees the steam fog the room but doesn't feel the heat as it reddens his skin. Can't summon the energy to care or will himself to lower the temperature. He just stands there.

 _What if Mark's dead?_ The thought he had been trying to avoid pops into his head, but all his body does is bark out a laugh while he's too exhausted to feel anything at all. If Mark's dead then it's Jack's own fucking fault and he can't do anything about it. Well, aside from letting Anti take over him so that he can rot in whatever dark recess of his mind Anti saw fit for him.

And if Mark's hurt what would he do then? Drop everything and fly to LA and then do what? Baby him? Just so he could rid himself of his own guilt? It'd be wholly selfish, seeing as Mark would _hate_ that.

This is insane. He was debating this why, exactly? Anti wasn't real. He wasn't _possessed_. There was no point in entertaining this. It didn't matter what that journal entry said: Mark lived in LA, Jack lived in Brighton. If something had happened to Mark, it wasn't his fault.

His lip curls at those thoughts. God, did he hear himself? "What the hell is wrong with me?" Predictably, there's no answer.

There's a clatter and, a few seconds later, when he looks for the source, he spies the shampoo laying near the edge of the drain. He must have reached for it without realizing and knocked it over.

Was any of this even real? It felt like he never really left that nightmare.

If he called Mark, would he wake up?

"Siri, call Mark Fischbach on speaker phone."

 _"Calling Mark Fischbach on speaker."_

Jack can barely focus on the series of rings but he tries regardless. 1…2…3…4….5… He counts the seconds, even if it's a struggle to do so.

 _"Sorry. The number you have called is-"_

Shit. "Siri. Call Mark Fischbach on speaker."

 _"Calling Mark Fischbach-"_

1…2…3… The out of service message repeats, this time faster than before.

 _"Sorry. The number-"_

"Siri! Call Mark Fischbach on speaker."

 _"Calling-"_

1…2…

 _"Sorry. The-"_

"Siri." His head hangs low, water dripping from his hair and into the torrent below. "Call Mark Fischbach on speaker phone, please."

 _"Sorry. The number you have tried to reach is unavailable at this time."_

He closes his eyes, deflating back into that state of nothingness. "Siri, call Amy Nelson on speaker phone. Please."

 _"Calling Amy Nelson on speaker."_

1…2…3…4…5…6…

 _"Hello?"_

He looks up. Her voice is groggy and a little muffled, but it was her. He had finally gotten an answer. "Is Mark there?"

 _"Huh? Yeah, he's right here. Who is- Sean?"_

He laughs, but it's drowned out by the cascading sound of the water. He doesn't feel like Sean. "Yeah, it's me. Can I talk to Mark?"

 _"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry! Mark!"_

He hears more shuffling and Amy voice as she called out, muffled like she had pulled away. Another, deeper, voice replies not long after with a groan and Jack's almost certain it's Mark. Has to be Mark.

…Was it too unrealistic to hope that maybe he was just overreacting and that Mark was completely fine? This was a dream, after all, right? Anything was possible, wasn't it? (Not just a dream, a nightmare. So what good would it do him to hope for something that wasn't going to happen?)

He hears the voice again, this time clear enough to make out a 'thanks', and more ruffling. Oh, they had been sleeping, hadn't they? Was that the blanket he had been hearing?

 _"Hey Sean, what's up?"_

His mind goes blank. He didn't actually expect to get Mark. No, no he had expected tears from Amy — gross sobs as she explained that Mark was dead. Whispers of how it was all his fault. Maybe even Anti. Staring. Laughing.

But not Mark, sounding alive and well.

What was he supposed to say to him? That this strange entity or hallucination was messing with him, claimed to have hurt a close friend? That he just had a panic attack due to said entity and that he felt so guilty that it had rotted away at his insides and left him empty? That he didn't know if this even mattered or not, because this could all still be just one huge nightmare that he hadn't woken up from yet? It just wouldn't work. "Uh." God, what was up with him? He was good at coming up with nonsense to say during videos. Why can't he right now? Was it because nothing was real? Because he can't focus and his brain won't cooperate? What a joke. "I was wondering if you wanted to, y'know, maybe collab and play some games later? Maybe some stupid online multiplayer game? Like Gmod?"

 _"I mean I'd be down for that. But is that really what you called to talk to me about? It's really early for you, isn't it?"_

He bites his lip and watches the steam rise up into the ceiling. Yeah, he figured that excuse wouldn't really work. But it was all his mind supplied him. Fuck it, he should just get to the heart of the problem. "Guess you caught me. I couldn't sleep, kinda—" _Had a nightmare I probably haven't woken up from— "_ I don't know. Had a weird dream I guess. Couldn't fall back asleep so I figured I'd try calling you again? I uh- I tried calling you earlier but you must have been busy or somethin' since you never picked up. I thought it made sense to call you now but I guess I didn't… I was really stupid with the timing I guess… Sorry."

 _"Oh wait you did? Why?"_ Exasperation clings to his friend's tone. _"Wait, Sean, you know my phone is fried, right?"_

A shock of ice cold water rains down over him. When had he gone from not being able to feel the shower at all, to this? Especially when the steam still rose into the air as if the shower were still scorching hot? "What—" Jack swallows— "What do you mean?" This didn't feel like a dream anymore.

 _"Yeah. It was really weird. I went to charge it a couple nights ago and I guess it malfunctioned or was defective or something. Like I woke up in the middle of the night to it smoking. I managed to throw it away in case it set fire but I burned my hand pretty badly. I must have fallen asleep on it during the night or something."_

There's a pause. Jack clings to the shower curtain with one trembling hand, breathing picking up. He'd respond, but it was taking all of his willpower to not fall back into that panic attack.

So Mark _had_ been hurt. Had Anti caused that somehow? He couldn't have, they're on opposite sides of the world right? But then he never really heard of iPhones just _burning people_. He also never really looked into it though. How likely was that without Anti's interference?

 _"Sean?"_ His name is uttered softly, concerned. Maybe it was due to his lack of response, or maybe Mark had picked up on his breathing? Could he even pick up on that over the sound of the shower? It sounded so thunderous to him right now. Like a waterfall.

Jeezes, he shouldn't be making Mark worry like this when he was the one hurt. He was so fucking selfish.

"Oh." It really was a sad excuse of a response and he knew it, but it was all he could think of to say. God he was so tired.

 _"Hey, hey I'm okay. It's really not that bad."_ He hears shuffling in the background, and then Mark's voice again as he speaks to Amy. _"—ht back."_

"Mark?" This was wrong. Was he leaving the room? Why? To avoid disturbing Amy any further just to keep talking to him?

His legs shake, the world around him blurred away and gone. The floor gives out from under him and he drops. He doesn't know where he's sitting, maybe on the edge of the tub. Maybe on the slippery floor. It didn't really matter.

He really fucked up in calling. This wasn't a nightmare, was it?

This is real. Mark is hurt. _This is real. Mark is hurt._

It's all his fault.

 _"—ook at this."_

He barely registers Mark's voice. What was he doing? Sending him a picture?

 _"L͢oo̕k a͏t͟ ̵t̴ha͢t̛. G̴o͠od ol'́ Marki̸pl̡i͏eŕ ̴jus̀t ̛h̡a͡s to r̢u͠b̀ j͞ust͏ how m͏u҉c̴h you ̸ f͟u҉c҉k̕ed up ̵i̧n you̵r̨ fa͟ce. What̴ ̡a̸ good̨ fr̵ie̕nd, kee̸pi̴n͠g͠ ̀y̴ǫu ̢a̕c͏ço̶uǹta͠b͡le.̵ Dòn͏'t͠ y̨ơu t̀hi̷n̴ḱ?̵"_

Fingers wrap around his shoulders but he doesn't react anymore. Why did Anti have to keep torturing him like this?

 _"Sean?"_

He must have taken too long replying again. But all he can manage to say is a weak, "I'm sorry." And then, after a few seconds, he manages to add, "I should have seen the tweet and checked on you sooner. I let my recording schedule run away with me."

 _"Dude, it's not a big deal. No need to apologize. I don't see every tweet you make."_

All Jack does his shake his head. He sees his hands trembling as he buries his face into them, wishing that this really had been just a nightmare after all. "I'm sorry."

Mark must have been the one at a loss for words this time, as he doesn't so much as reply. Or maybe he was angry and all of his efforts and kind words were just for show. Maybe he knew it was all Jack's fault but just didn't want to say it. Was Mark afraid of confrontation? Did he try everything in his power to avoid them? Jack never took him for the type, never even asked. But Jack was a people-pleaser himself. How would he know when he avoided confrontation whenever possible?

 _"Hey. I get you feel like shit right now, but I swear if you accept the FaceTime you'll feel a lot better."_

And there it was; Mark's mothering tone. What right did Jack have to hear that? For Mark to be so caring towards him when it really should be the opposite? This was humiliating and wrong.

Maybe this really was a nightmare after all.

He takes a shaky, shallow breath in. "I…I can't."

 _"What? Why?"_ For some reason, Mark seems hurt by this.

"It doesn't matter."

 _"Sean."_

He sighs, too tired to fight wherever this line of questioning was going. "I'm in the shower."

 _"Oh."_ Mark breathes out, followed by another, _"Oh! So that's what that sound was. Why did you call me in the shower?"_

"Because it felt like it didn't matter at the time." He avoids mentioning thinking it was a nightmare. Doesn't mention the fact that he thought that Mark had been potentially dead.

Of course, predictably, it doesn't seem to matter at all. For Mark must have been taken aback by it regardless, breathing out, _"Holy shit, okay. You're scaring me a little here."_

He doesn't know what else to say other than another, "I'm sorry." Why was he scaring him? Was that really that bad?

 _"Okay seriously, what's wrong? Why are you apologizing so much?"_

"Nothing's wrong. Just felt bad that I didn't notice you were hurt."

 _"This isn't about that though, is it?"_

Jack frowns. Mark was too fucking observant.

 _"...This isn't about wanting to collaborate either. I know you. I know your thing was yelling 'sleep is for the weak' or whatever but there's no way you'd call me at whatever bullshit hour it is for you just to ask that."_

"What's your point?"

He can practically see Mark's hands on his hips, expression twisted in exasperation and worry and maybe even anger or annoyance. Maybe Mark really didn't fear confrontation. Maybe he was the opposite instead and hated dancing around the issue altogether. Jack knew when he was annoying someone, keenly aware of it in fact. Mark may be diplomatic, but it didn't mean he had the patience for Jack's own dodging.

 _"My point is that I want to know what this is about. Why did you call me tonight, Sean?"_ Mark sounds tired as well, but not the same flavored of tired when you've just woken up. No, it sounded more bone-weary. Closer to Jack's own exhaustion than the former.

Jack chews on his lip, hand against his neck. Was he really that emotionally draining? "I already told you-"

 _"And I know that's a lie. Just tell me what's going on."_ When Jack doesn't say anything, he continues, _"Please. You're starting to really scare me. You've been pulling away from everyone ever since Robin left your house to go home. At least tell me whether why you called me and that are related or not."_

He wants to tell him. Really, he does. But he can't, can he? This wasn't a nightmare. There _will_ be consequences if he said anything. And he really didn't want to hear or see whatever hell Anti cooks up for Mark because Jack was an idiot and dragged him in again.

But not saying anything at all felt wrong. Mark was already waist-deep in this shit. Doesn't he deserve to know? Just like Robin?

"I…I don't know."

 _"You don't know?"_

He shakes his head, tightens his grip on his neck until it stings. "I'm sorry," he repeats again helplessly.

 _"Okay…"_

Jack hates this. This was just like the argument with Robin, but this time he can't explain shit. Not without someone getting hurt. "I don't want to fight."

 _"Then tell me what's going on."_

Jack shakes his head again. His chest burns. "I can't."

 _"You can't, or you just don't want to?"_

"I _can't_." And then, quieter, he murmurs, "I wish I could."

He wishes he could see Mark's face. At the same time he's relieved he can't; torn between wanting to confirm his friend's disappointment and wanting that safety net of deniability.

He really does hate this.

 _"Okay. Okay. I trust you. Just know that I'm here if you need it."_

A smile tugs at Jack's lips. It's tinged with bitterness, knowing that as much as he wanted to take Mark up on that offer, he really truly can't. "Thank you," he says regardless of that fact. He appreciates the thought, at least.

 _"Alright, well. I have to go. Why don't you finish your shower and head back to bed? It's not much of a replacement for me, but sleep might help you feel better."_

"I don't know. Sleeping _does_ sound more appealing than seeing your doofy face."

 _"Hey! My face isn't doofy."_

Jack laughs. "And that's where we disagree. But seriously, thank you." He stands up, the curtain crinkled in one hand. "I'll do that. We'll talk about that collab later?"

 _"Yeah. Sounds good."_

The call ends with their farewells and a series of beeps. How long had he been in the shower, talking to Mark? The steam had dissipated and the water was freezing. He turns it off and exits the shower.

The water drips onto the mat and bathroom floor. Jack sighs but doesn't make to mop it up as he instead ties a towel around his waist and heads over to the sink. Whipping the hand towel off of its holder, he uses it to dab his neck dry before taking some antiseptic and more gauze out from the drawer. Once done he wraps it taut, clipping it at the end.

Swiping the phone from off counter — 30%, hadn't the battery been fully charged earlier? — he makes his way back towards his room. He feels eyes following him, knows Anti's behind him but he can't summon the energy to panic anymore. He's done enough of that the past few hours.

It's when he's made it back to his room and he's halfway decent with sweatpants on that he finally turns around to face him.

And sees no one there.

 _"_ Anti?"

 _"L̷ook̴s ̷l̡i͟k͡e̡ my ļit̵tl̕e͞ mes҉sage̡ w͡en̕t ̵stra̛iģht ove҉r̡ ýou͠r͟ ͞idio̧t͢i̧c ͞he̵a͝d̢, d͠idn̸'t͢ ͡i͝t͠?͏"_

Jack whips around. Anti sits on top of his bureau with legs and arms crossed. Head cocked to one side, his pure black eyes stare down at him. Jack takes a few steps back, smacking right into the frame of his bed, feeling a crawling sensation all over his body.

Like Anti was a spider and he was a mere insect trapped in his web.

 _"W̸hy͝ ҉d̵o ͝yóu thin͝k̨ I ͏húr̸t҉ h͠im S̛eán?"̀_ Anti's form convulses — a broken mess of meaty chunks and disconnected limbs — before it snaps whole right in front of him. Towering over him. Startling him. _"̵A̶re ͟ỳou r̨eal͟l̛y ̢so͡ stupi͢d ̀t̨h́at ̧y̛ou ͢though̶t i͝t̀ w̡as all just fǫr̕ fun̵? Bec̷ause I'̴ll ̧te̷l̡l͟ ya ̢ẃh̷at.̨"_

Anti grabs his neck, so sudden that Jack has no time to react or dodge. All he can do is scrabble against the ghost of hands as they grip tighter and tighter, until he can no longer breathe-

But that's not really happening, is it?

The hands are gone. Jack collapses onto the bed and Anti stands still a few feet away. Like he never moved at all. And maybe he hadn't. It wasn't the first time he's felt phantom hands around his neck.

 _"A̧ş ͡f̛un ̶a͠s̴ it ͏is͞ tor̸t҉urin'͏ ҉y͞o̕u,̢ th̨a͠t ҉aín͝'̨t wh̵a͠t͝ this ͏i̡s̨ a͡b͝o͝ut̀. I ̴just ͞don't ̧wan̡t ͝ya ̴t̡o͠ ̧s̢q͠u͢ȩal ́on͡ me ̡l̛i̸ke̵ t͠he̡ swi͠ne̕ you ̡ar̛e."͟_

He curls over, his own hands protectively clutching at his own neck while he tries to get his bearings again. Anti was still by the bureau just a foot away. Across from him was his open door. If he bought himself some time, he could try and run but to where? Did Anti even want to hurt him right now?

It was like the bedroom wasn't totally grounded in reality anymore. It left him disoriented and lost. Like whenever there was a major lapse in his memory that left him feeling like he was suddenly transported somewhere else. "Aren't ya a little too late for that? Robin already knows about you. Besides, I didn't- It didn't go over my head. I'm not stupid."

 _"O͝h ̢J̨acka͏bo͢y͠.̵ ̕M̧ayb͏e I ̨di͠d ͡o͞v͡erȩs͝t͏imaţè ya.͠"_ His face splits into a wide, Cheshire-grin. _"Don̸'̢t ya r͡ea̸ĺizé ͠tha̵t he̛ th͏i̵nks ͏y͟ou're c͝r̷azy̸? P͝oor,̵ ̡cra̕zy ̢lit̷tle J̀ac̕k͡a҉b̧o̡y, a͏n̴g̨ry ́a͡t ҉h̵iś ̛own̡ fr͝ìends̵ f͢or̵ ͝a ͝dre͝am that ̛ne̷ver ha̧ppèn̶ed and͡ a ̨h͝alļu̡c̕i̵n͏a͞ti̶o̢n̵ that҉ ͟you've m҉i̴st̕a̴ken͡ as͏ ͞r͠ea̷l.̶ How p͢ath̷et͡i̢ç."/_

'Says the guy who claims he's real,' he wants to quip, but bites his tongue knowing nothing good would come of it. He knows what Anti's doing. That he was just trying to drive a permanent wedge between him and Robin. Further issues that felt mostly resolved. That he was teasing him for his earlier disbelief. Trying to get into his head.

He knew all that but the words still stung. Knowing didn't translate into deflecting, after all.

Anti must have sensed the turmoil his words had sparked, for his smile somehow widens further. Practically ear-to-ear in a literal sense.

Jack winces from it, feeling phantom pain in his jaw.

 _"Se҉è, y͝ou̢'r͝e҉ fi̕n̵al̡ly ̶g͡ett͞i͞n' ̡įt.͏_ _͟_ _That edi͢tor d̀oe̶sn't͟ ̨b͡eli̡ev͞e ̷you,͝ ͏s̵ǫ wh͞y w̵oul͠d̶ h̸e help̴ ̢y͝ou i̵f͡ y̸ou ́w͠e̕n͡t ̡a͟nd͝ ̢crie̷d̸ wolf̷? Y̸o̶u̷ alre̕ády ̛h҉ad ýơu̵r҉ cha͢nce w͞i̴th̀ h̢im ̕a̕nd̵ you a̛in̶'t g҉ęttin'̡ ano̶t͟h̷e̡r w͠i͝t̛h t̨ha҉t̵ f̴҉ư̕c̶͡k̨͟,̕ ̢͡͝F̢͝i͡s͏͝c̴̕hbac̶͝h̡.͡"_

"Still," he says, his voice slow and his tone deliberate. "Why would it matter? Even if he knew, he's all the way across the world. He can't stop you."

 _"S͏o͠ y̸ǫu ͡do̶n't͠ ͝be̸li̷èv͝e̷ me? D̴o I ҉ha̛ve t̛o ̀m̨ake m̛y ͢poin̕t ag͠ai҉n̕?̨"_

His heart rate picks up. "No! No that's not what I meant! I just don't understand." Why would it matter if Mark or anyone else knew and believed him? Even if Robin didn't think Anti was real there was still a possibility he'd say something if he became worried enough. Millions of his fans knew as well that something was up, and it wasn't like Anti had stopped him or Robin from keeping that clip in. Or from creating it in the first place.

Was it because Robin's account would be biased enough that no one else would think Anti's real? Because it would be pure speculation on the fans' part, with no hard proof, and the only likely conclusion that he somehow hurt himself accidentally?

"You never make much sense. You hurt me, you hurt my friends, all to take my body? Is any of that even necessary? They can't stop you. _I_ can't stop you." It's terrifying to admit, but as of right now, with the knowledge he has, he knows it's true. From within the deepest, darkest parts of himself, he knows it's true. "I can't stop you."

Anti doesn't stop smiling. Even as he blinks and green irises seep into the blacks of his eyes. Even as he glares and flexes his claws, dark as midnight and sharp as knives. _"͝You ̀hav̀en'͟t̵ ͡beèn p̴ayi̧ng̵ ̧atten̶t͡io͞n̸,̡ ̨have̛ ͏y̡o̸u?̴"͢_

His breathing shivers. Pain licks the side of his neck like it were on fire. He digs his fingers in, trying to keep as calm as possible. But frustration and near-hysteria bubble in his chest until he can't help but burst out with, "W-What? What the hell does that mean? I remember every fucking minute of your damn torture Anti!"

Eyes narrowing and smile dropped, Anti pounces onto the bed. His claws dig into the mattress, tearing his sheets like they were tissue paper. _"I̵͞ ̡͡t̛͡͠o̶̡ld͞ ̢y̢̢o̡ù̢͠ ͢͡o̷̕v̡ę̴r͟͡ ͏̕a̷nd͏̷̛ ̵̕ǫ̕v҉e̵r̴̕ ̴à̧̕ga̧͢i҉̀n̴͡.̨ Dreams, reality, memories. You deserve every ring of ḩ̡̧͡e̵̸͞l̸̷l̸̨͠, every m̶̡̢̕į͝ņ̸́̕͝u͏͞t̴͟͠͡e҉͘͟͢ you squirm like the m͏ág̨͠g̸̵̡ó̴͝t̴ ͟͡you̴ ̸ar̴͝e̶.̸̢ You͞ don'́t̢ ̕unde͠rs̸t̛a҉nd w̴h͠y̧ ͏Į'͡m͟ do͟ing ͏t͠his?"_ He's practically on top of him now, slinking over him. His shadow consuming Jack's form. Shrinking back into the bed, he scrambles back and hits the wall behind him. Nowhere to run. _"̕W̨ell͞ įt̷'͏s l͡įk̷e I've ̨sai̶d̶.̶ I'm dón͞e̶ g͡o͢i̵ng ͏ín͞ ͞circ̀lȩs͝,_ _S̶̀e҉̴̴̸̵á̶̕͠͡n͝͞,̸̸̀̕͟_ _and I'm not ͞g̨o̢ing̴ t́o ̸ȩxplain it̀ ͠t́o ya ̧ag͟a͞in and ag҉̴͡a̧í̷n̴̴͢ if a̕ll y̸ou̢'r̢e͢ ̷gonn̵a̵ ̛do͏ ̶i̧s̶ ̀forget.҉ A҉ll ̴y̶ou ͠h͟ave̴ to ķno͏w͏ ́is͠ ͡that͟ ̕y͏ou w̵il͏l͢ s͞͝͏҉̛u͟͝f̕͏f̨͟͠e̴̵͟͟͡ŕ̡̢͢͝ your retribu̧t̸ion͏.̛ O̧r̶ ͞is ͞t̀h̸at t̀óo ̵har̶d͝ ͞f̕or your śh̷i̕t̷-͝f̶il̛le̶d ̸b̴ra͟in to rèmemb̵e̕r?̢"͢_

Jack holds his tongue. He knows by now that nothing good can come from questioning further, even if he so desperately wanted to know what the hell he did to deserve any of this. Because no matter how lost and desperate for answers he was, it didn't outweigh his sense of self-preservation.

He doesn't want to die.

Maybe Anti sensed this, or maybe his anger had merely been a flare, quickly snuffed out by his silence. Or maybe he could see the fear clear as day in his victim's eyes as Jack squirms from under his looming form. Whatever it was, it was enough for the entity. His smile widens and his head twists, cocking to one side again. Observing him.

And then he barks out a distorted laugh. He's no longer on all fours but, instead, is standing by the foot of the bed. Jack never saw him move. "So ͢y̢o͟u͞ ͝do learn.͡ ͡ _I guess ͢ỳo͏u̶'re n͡ot a̢s du̕mb̴ a͞s̕ ̢I ͏t͝h͝oug̵ht͞ ̢you̵ ̷węr̴e̸.͢"_

Closing his eyes, Jack finally accepts that Anti was just going to call him an idiot no matter what one way or the other. At least the initial danger had passed, or it felt that way anyways. (Was it ever safe when Anti was around?) "What's your plan now?"

 _"W̡h͞a̴t ̨do ́y͡o̡u̶ ͠m͟eąn̶?"_ There's an edge to his tone, both parts suspecting and warning.

"What do you plan on doing with me now? Are you finally going to kill me, or do you just plan on torturing me some more?"

 _"̛Oh. ͠W̧e'r̛e̴ ̛ju̸s̷t̸ ̵goin̸g ͡to ͝be play҉ing a͟ li̶tt̛l̨e ga̶m̶é."̡_ He says this with that damned grin right back on his face. _"It'̷s̀ ̷cal͟l͝ed̕ ̢'͝Ca͞tch the͏ ̨You̸tu̕ber' an̨d̷ gu̶ess ͞wha̸t̢?"_

Jack's eyes widen. He tries scrambling away, but his feet get tangled within the bed sheets. There's no time to get untangled as Anti looms over him again, hand outstretched, grabbing at his shoulder- _"͡_ _Y̵ou'r͏e 'i̡t̷'̕."̷_

With Anti's laugh the last thing he hears, the room falls away from him and everything goes dark.


End file.
